r?LANCELOT 

MAURICE    HEWLETT 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 

From  the  library  of 
Henry  Goldman,  C.E.  fh.D, 
1886-1972 


MRS.   LANCELOT 

A  COMEDY  OF  ASSUMPTIONS 


He  had  a  lovely  girl  pondering  his  words 


MRS.    LANCELOT 

A  COMEDY  OF  ASSUMPTIONS 


BY 

MAURICE   HEWLETT 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 

R.  F.  SCHABELITZ 


'Arpeldi],  $  &p  n  rod'    d/i,<j>OTepot(rt.v    dpeiov 
^TT\ero!  ffol  KO.I  efJ.ol>  fire  vwt  irep,  d 
6vfj.oj36pa>  i-pidi  fJ-everivafiev   eiveKa 


d\\a  TO.  fttv  TrpoTeT6x@ai  edffo/J.ev>  dx^vfjievoi  irep> 
0V/J.&V  evl  ffrriOefffft,  <f>i\ov  daftdaavres  dvajKy. 

II.  xix.  56  ff. 


NEW   YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1912 


Copyright,  1912,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Copyright,  1911,  1912,  by 
THE  METROPOLITAN  MAGAZINE  COMPANY 

Published  October,  igi2 


Annex 

PR 
MIS! 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  I 

THE  YOUNG  MARRIED  COUPLE 


PAGE 


I  THE  CARDINAL  ASSUMPTION     ....  3 

II     DIANA'S  WEDDING 14 

III  GEORGIAN A'S  FATE 24 

IV  THE  SUIT 34 

V    THE  LETTER 46 

VI     HOUSEHOLD  ACCOUNTS 52 

VII     THE  PURSUIT  OF  THE  EYE 63 

VIII     THE  EYE  CAPTURED 69 

IX  CHARLES  ON  WIFELY  DUTY       ....  86 

X    THE  DUKE  OF  DEVIZES 103 

XI     VAUXHALL 112 

XII     GERVASE  POORE 132 

XIII  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  MAN  WHO  GOT 

WHAT  HE  WANTED 144 

XIV  FRUITS  OF  VICTORY 165 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  II 
EGERIA'S  DISTRACTIONS 

PAGE 

I  EQUIVOCAL  ESTABLISHMENT       .     .     .      .179 

II  NAUSITHOE  AND  OTHER  POEMS       .      .      .   194 

III  SHE  READS  OF  HERSELF 209 

IV  THE  WAKE  HOUSE  BALL 227 

V  EXTRAORDINARY  CONVERSATION       .      .      .  240 

VI  THE  SOUL  OF  GEORGIANA 254 

VII  THE  CROWN 268 

VIII  FIRST  FRUITS 280 

IX  WOUNDS  IN  THE  OPEN 297 

X  LOCAL  REMEDY 314 

BOOK  III 
LOVE  IN  A  MIST 

I    THE  DUKE  AT  THE  HELM 329 

II     ITALY  AND  THE  LOVERS 342 

III  GENIUS  Loci 354 

IV  FONTEMAGRA 367 

V    GERVASE'S  TEETH 380 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PACK 

He  had  a  lovely  girl  pondering  his  words  .     Frontispiece 
She  would  press  his  hand,  lean  to  him  urgently  and 

murmur  her  assurance 59 

"  Is  this  what  your  quiet  ways  bring  to  you?  "  .      .113 
"  I  think  that  you  and  I  can  serve  each  other  "  .      .145 

He  snaps  his  fingers  at  prosody 219 

When  the  Duke  was  present  things  went  much  better  289 

Come,  my  beloved,  come — 309 

The  sun  to  him  was  dark,  and  silent  was  the  moon  363 


BOOK   I 
THE  YOUNG  MARRIED  COUPLE 


MRS.  LANCELOT 


THE    CARDINAL   ASSUMPTION 

PARED  down  to  the  bones,  so  to  speak,  here  is 
what  happened.  The  Marquis  was  talking 
to  three  or  four  young  men  at  Arthur's,  where  he 
was  dining.  The  talk  had  drifted  from  a  battle 
in  Bermondsey  to  politics,  and  from  politics  to 
ways  and  means.  Reform,  said  the  Marquis, 
could  be  staved  off,  because  an  election  could  be 
staved  off.  The  King  was  very  ill,  much  worse 
than  he  chose  to  discover;  but  this  was  known,  and 
a  demise  of  the  Crown  was  no  time  for  an  appeal 
to  the  country.  If  the  Whigs  could  be  beat,  he 
(the  Marquis)  would  take  office  —  and  hold  it, 
with  a  decent  backing.  But  where  was  he  to  get 
that,  he  wanted  to  know.  Then  it  was  that  Lord 
Netherbow  spoke  up  for  the  Treasury.  There 
were  a  number  of  men  there  biting  their  nails,  who 
could  bite  to  better  purpose.  The  Marquis's 
very  blue  eyes  concentrated.  "  Name  me  three," 
he  said,  plying  his  tooth-pick.  The  names  came 
out  with  one  consent  from  the  three  or  four  young 

3 


4  MRS.  LANCELOT 

mouths.  There  was  Starcross  — "  He  's  an  ass," 
said  the  Marquis;  there  was  Filney — "And 
he  's  another  " — ;  there  was  Lancelot,  who  was  a 
worker.  The  Marquis  was  now  vague.  His  eyes 
regarded,  but  did  not  comprehend,  the  cruet-stand. 
"A  worker,  is  he?"  he  said  musingly.  :' They 
are  rare.  I  might  have  an  eye  for  him."  Then 
he  dipped  the  corner  of  his  napkin  and  wiped  his 
mouth  with  it;  and  then  he  drank  his  port.  And 
that  was  all. 

But  Lord  Netherbow,  a  smart  Under  Secretary, 
reported  it  next  day  to  Clarkson,  and  Clarkson 
confided  it  to  Jodrell,  and  Jodrell  at  luncheon-time 
gave  it  to  two  others,  one  of  whom  handed  it 
on,  a  rounded  whole,  to  Charles  Lancelot.  Each 
bosom  as  the  rumor  swelled  its  way  was  elated, 
every  eye  as  the  prospect  unfolded  was  the 
brighter;  but  none,  oddly  enough,  swelled  less  and 
none  took  less  luster  than  the  bosom,  than  the  eyes 
of  Charles  Lancelot,  for  whom,  as  it  came  to  him 
finally,  Lord  Monthermer,  the  Marquis,  actually 
had  an  eye.  The  room  in  which  he  sat  at  his 
duties,  with  two  other  young  gentlemen  of  similar 
parts  and  breeding,  fairly  hummed  with  the  news. 
It  seemed  to  lift  for  a  moment  the  thick,  sun- 
enriched  dust  that  hung  serried  before  the  win- 
dows; but  Charles  Lancelot  heard  it  unmoved. 
He  just  lifted  his  grave  face  on  its  long  (too  long) 
stalk  of  neck,  and  smiled  palely,  with  a  remote 


THE  CARDINAL  ASSUMPTION        5 

gaze  to  Whitehall,  as  if  he  saw  ships  on  an  hori- 
zon. Remote  young  man !  As  if  conscious  of 
high  destiny,  he  palely  smiled.  And  then  he  re- 
sumed the  driving  of  his  quill;  and  his  colleagues 
looked  at  one  another,  and  one  of  them  said, 
"  Cool  hand,  Charles." 

But  Charles  was  not  at  all  cool,  nor  was  his  heart 
beating  at  all  steadily  in  his  breast.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  his  self-esteem  that  he  should  appear  so, 
and  perhaps  no  one  will  ever  realize  the  efforts 
that  he  made  to  get  through  that  languid  summer 
afternoon  with  his  accustomed  method  and  dili- 
gence; but  cool  he  was  not  —  neither  then  nor 
afterwards,  until  the  conviction  had  settled  down 
in  his  mind  that  a  great  career  was  opening  to  him. 
He  had,  I  may  say,  always  suspected  it  (for  no  one, 
in  his  quiet  way,  had  a  higher  opinion  of  him  than 
himself)  ;  and,  now  here  it  was  —  dawning  upon 
him !  When  this  conviction,  I  say,  had  settled 
itself  in,  his  elation  crystallized  into  a  magnificent 
gravity,  a  lofty  expectancy  which  did  not  add  to  his 
social  charm.  He  had  always  been  serious,  and 
was  now  portentous,  under  the  shadow  of  Lord 
Monthermer's  eyelid;  he  absorbed  himself  in  his 
work,  and  when  he  went  out  into  the  world  exhaled 
it  like  an  aura.  He  confided  his  immense  secret 
to  very  few;  but  Mrs.  Mayduke  was  one  of  those 
few.  He  told  her. 

Now  she,  being  a  pretty  woman,  was  a  friend  of 


6  MRS.  LANCELOT 

the  Marquis's,  and  ought  to  have  helped;  but  the 
young  man  deprecated  her  offer  with  a  raised 
hand  and  a  sideways  head.  "  Not  for  the  world, 
I  beg,"  he  had  said.  He  had  not  added,  but 
Mrs.  Mayduke  did  —  to  herself  —  that  his  arn> 
gance  could  not  have  it  supposed  for  one  moment 
that  his  future  depended  upon  anything  but  merit; 
and  Mrs.  Mayduke  was  partly  right.  His  golden 
destiny  would  come  to  him  tarnished,  he  felt,  if  a 
woman  or  man  of  his  friends  should  advance  the 
hour  by  ten  minutes ;  but  that  was  not  all.  Charles 
Lancelot  was  so  made  that  he  would  rather  venture 
nothing  at  all,  than  venture  and  fail.  His  self- 
esteem  was  more  than  tender  —  it  was  raw.  So 
it  befell  that  when  upon  some  occasion  or  another 
—  and  there  may  have  been  more  than  one  —  he 
met  Lord  Monthermer  in  Mrs.  Mayduke's  draw- 
ing-room, though  he  was  presented  to  the  great 
man,  and  even  exchanged  a  few  words  with  him, 
the  summons  of  the  watchful  eye  was  not  even 
looked  for;  and  when  afterwards  from  time  to  time 
the  two  may  have  met  in  street  or  assembly,  noth- 
ing occurred  except  this  remarkable  thing,  that 
Charles  would  hide  from  the  embracing  scope  of 
the  Marquis's  eye,  and  seem  for  all  the  world  like 
a  hunted  wretch  rather  than  a  candidate,  seeking 
by  all  means  to  escape  the  hour  of  doom.  Such 
tricks  will  self-esteem  play  with  an  otherwise 
reasonable  man. 


THE  CARDINAL  ASSUMPTION        7 

But  none  the  less  urgently  did  the  overburden- 
ing consciousness  of  the  eye  and  its  message  for 
him  drive  Lancelot  to  his  work,  and  none  the 
less  anxiously  was  the  summons  awaited.  Years 
passed;  Lord  Monthermer  took  office  under  the 
Duke  of  Jutland,  and  nothing  was  done  —  either 
to  Charles  Lancelot  or,  it  may  be  owned,  to  the 
country;  and  then  it  was  given  out  that  his  lordship 
had  been  appointed  Envoy  Extraordinary  to  the 
Congress  of  Cracow,  whither  presently  his  lord- 
ship departed  in  semi-state,  where  he  actually  was 
at  the  time  this  tale  begins,  battling  for  the  rights 
of  his  country,  and  hunting  three  days  a  week  with 
a  pack  of  foxhounds  which  he  had  had  imported 
from  his  kennels  down  in  Hampshire.  Nor,  if 
Diana  was  so  served,  was  Venus  forgotten;  for  his 
lordship  kept  two  establishments  in  and  near  Cra- 
cow. In  one  of  them  he  lived  with  his  suite;  in 
the  other  a  Miss  Kitty  Jervis  reigned,  a  fair 
Cyprian  whose  London  address  was  Prospect 
Place,  Islington.  But  with  her  we  have  nothing 
at  all  to  do. 

In  and  through  his  lordship's  doings,  and  her 
doings,  and  the  rumors  of  them  which  reached 
our  shores,  Charles  Lancelot  of  the  Treasury 
mewed  his  youth  and  nursed  his  bantling  convic- 
tions as  best  he  might.  He  saw  his  foster-father 
in  affairs  out  and  home,  saw  him  get  a  dukedom, 
and  become  "  the  Duke  "  among  dukes,  as  before 


8  MRS.  LANCELOT 

he  had  been  u  the  Marquis  "  among  marquises, 
and  still  stood  upon  his  great  assumption;  en- 
cumbered with  the  many  others  which  had  grown 
parasitically  round  it.  Now  here  in  what  follows 
I  have  put  down  the  root  of  his  matter,  the  great 
primary  assumption  which  is  the  root  also  of  the 
title  of  this  book. 

Charles  Lancelot  was  of  good  family,  as  he  was 
quite  well  aware.  If  he  had  been  of  better,  prob- 
ably he  would  have  thought  less  about  it;  but  his 
father  had  been  Dean  of  Wryhope,  and  his  mother 
was  a  second  cousin  of  Lord  Drem's.  Eton  and 
Trinity  had  had  the  rearing  of  him,  with  no  result 
upon  his  seriousness,  nor  upon  the  curious  blend  of 
diffidence  and  good  conceit  which  he  presented  to 
those  of  the  world  who  cared  to  concern  them- 
selves with  him.  Acutely  sensitive  to  outside  opin- 
ion, and  cautious  not  to  provoke  it  before  the  time, 
he  was  still  more  sensitive  to  his  own,  and  still 
more  cautious  there.  Nothing,  certainly,  would 
have  led  him  to  his  great  assumption  but  the 
harmony  it  made  with  his  intuitions.  From 
childhood  he  had  believed  himself  called  to  a 
rank  out  of  the  common  reach,  and  against  all 
evidence  had  clung  to  that  assurance.  Here  then 
he  had  plain  proof,  the  first,  no  doubt,  of  many. 
The  assumption  once  made,  it  took  root  and  pos- 
sessed itself  of  his  being.  His  destiny  was  indeed 


THE  CARDINAL  ASSUMPTION        9 

involved,  and,  with  that,  other  destinies  which 
got  swept  into  the  vortex  of  his. 

For,  of  course,  this  nursling  of  Destiny,  not  at 
all  exempt  from  the  ordinary  needs  of  our  nature, 
sought  for  himself  a  sharer  in  his  high  designs; 
and  of  course  this  book  is  an  account  of  whom  he 
got,  of  how  he  got  her  —  and  of  what  he  got. 

An  illuminative  remark  in  Lady  B 's  journal 

may  be  quoted  before  I  get  to  work  —  a  friendly, 
shrewd-spoken  high  lady  she  was,  who  thought 
none  the  worse  of  a  great  man  for  a  liaison,  and 
none  the  better  of  a  woman.  She  was  able  with 
ease  to  make  that  curious  distinction,  saying,  first, 
that  the  woman  was  necessary  to  the  man's  com- 
fort, and,  second,  that  she  ought  to  be  shunned 
for  being  it.  Odd  how  these  things  go.  Here  at 
least  is  what  she  writes : — 

".  .  .  Large  party  at  Bagington  to  meet  the 
Duke" — Devizes,  naturally:  there  was  no  other 

— "  J s,  Lambs,  Llantrissants,  a  sprinkling  of 

Wingfields,  Lord  Alvanley,  Rogers,  C.  Greville, 
Sydney:  an  extraordinary  jumble  of  sheep  and 
goats.  He  kept  us  all  waiting  two  days  — '  Busi- 
ness of  State ' —  and  then  rode  over  from  Tor- 
cross,  of  course  by  the  door  of  Her  carriage.  The 
famous  Mrs.  Lancelot  is  the  most  discreet  Egeria  I 
ever  saw.  Very  pale,  with  serious,  almost  round 
eyes,  a  small  mouth,  beautifully  shaped,  she  looks  a 
prude.  Thin  beyond  the  point,  but  exquisitely 


io  MRS.  LANCELOT 

dressed.  She  looks  worn  and  very  sad.  Talks 
scarcely  at  all  —  not  much  more  than  monosyl- 
lables, even  to  him  —  and  yet  one  can  see  what  she 
stands  for  in  that  quarter.  Close  observer,  misses 
nothing.  High  sense  of  humor,  I  fancy.  The 
husband  came  post  from  town,  arrived  the  same 
evening,  but  did  not  appear  until  breakfast.  Very 
much  at  the  Duke's  service  —  perfectly  proper 
to  Her.  It 's  a  strange  menage!  She  was  with 
him  all  the  morning  in  the  library  over  his  leather 
boxes,  and  Charles  Lancelot  ran  about  on  their 
errands  like  a  footman.  After  luncheon  the  Duke 
and  she  rode  —  alone.  Evening  —  half  of  the 
county  to  dinner.  Lord  Winthorpe  gave  her  his 

arm !     The  Duke  took  Lady  W and  had  me 

on  his  other  side.  We  talked  of  Burdett  and  Re- 
form. He  is  all  for  musketry,  recalled  Bona- 
parte's '  whiff  of  grape-shot ' — a  certainty,  he  says, 
but  doubts  if  he  '11  get  a  free  hand.  His  cabinet 

is  very  fidgety,  especially  Bernard  J n  (whom 

he  calls  '  Mother  ' !) .  Funny  to  hear  the  drop  in 
his  voice  when  he  refers  to  Her.  We  all  think 
it  most  romantic  —  and  had  no  notion  how  far  it 
had  gone.  She  had  only  been  lancee  since  the 
Duchess  died  —  but  I  know  it  is  a  long-standing 
affair.  After  dinner  the  men  came  in  to  tea  — 
and  the  happy  pair  retired  to  the  library,  which 
is  kept  sacred  to  his  business  of  all  sorts.  I  ex- 
changed a  few  civilities  with  her  before  that.  She 


THE  CARDINAL  ASSUMPTION      n 

seemed  to  me  shy,  but  not  ill  at  ease  —  reserved, 
rather." 

Let  one  example  suffice  for  many.  You  may 
depend  upon  it  that  Charles  Greville,  the  com- 
placent, imperturbable  gentleman,  did  not  miss 
much.  The  curious  may  find  it. 

But  there  follows  overleaf  the  following  entry, 
curiously  guarded :  "  The  unforeseen !  The  Lady 
had  an  interview  in  the  park  at  eleven  which  upset 
her  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  The  Duke  was  deus 
ex  machind,  swooped  down  in  the  nick  of  time  and 
scared  off  the  interloper.  He  made  light  of  the 
matter  with  that  extraordinary,  apparent  candor 
he  has.  He  seems  to  be  telling  you  everything, 
and  tells  you  nothing.  He  gave  me,  for  instance, 
a  wonderful,  documente  account  of  a  dismissed 
secretary,  pulling  a  bundle  of  letters  out  of  his 
pocket,  turning  them  over,  opening  one  or  two, 
finally  reading  out  of  one  things  which,  I  am  posi- 
tive, did  not  exist  in  it.  I  was  very  discreet,  and 
so  was  everybody,  I  am  glad  to  say.  Poor  little 
sweet,  suffering  creature,  I  am  deeply  sorry  for 
her.  But  her  men  are  devoted  to  her.  She  had 
a  talk  with  Hermia  Chambre,  and  left  us  in  the 
evening.  So  did  her  men." 

And  now,  who  was  this  lady?  What  had  she 
to  do  with  so  great  a  man?  What  had  the  pair 
of  them  to  do  with  blind  and  groaning  England, 
for  whom  one  of  them  at  least  was  conceived  to  be 


12  MRS.  LANCELOT 

working  while  she  groaned?  And  then  the  hus- 
band, Charles  Lancelot,  running  errands  "  like  a 
footman  " — what  part  had  he  to  play?  Did  he 
run  for  England's,  for  the  Duke's  or  for  his  wife's 
needs?  And  how  did  England  take  it  —  as  all 
of  a  piece?  or  as  the  indignity  too  much  (see- 
ing that  his  grace  had  his  windows  broken,  and 
Reform  carried  over  him)  ?  Or  as  negligible? 
And  finally,  who  is  Gervase  Poore? 

Gervase  Poore,  luscious  and  perfervid  young 
poet,  who  rendered  the  story  of  Nausithoe  so 
warmly  as  to  move  the  stately  reprobation  of 
Wordsworth,  and  get  an  invitation  to  breakfast 
from  Rogers,  in  actual  truth  composed  that  work 
round  about  the  dainty  person  of  Mrs.  Lancelot; 
and  why  and  how  that  is  so,  and  what  ensued,  is 
a  part  of  the  business  of  this  tale.  Love,  then,  is 
one  of  the  tenants  of  my  new  house,  and  politics, 
or  what  gentlemen  are  pleased  to  call  politics,  is 
another.  England  hardly  comes  in,  unless  by 
chance  one  whisks  the  draperies  too  high  and  you 
see  her  drab  millions  swarming  like  maggots  in 
an  old  cheese,  at  the  back  of  the  scene.  England 
is  not  even  Chorus :  her  time  was  not  yet,  is  hardly 
now.  Let  Tom  Moore  be  Chorus,  little  chirping, 

musical,  brave  soul,  him  with  candid  Lady  B 

and  caustic  Mr.  Greville;  let  them  chatter  the  in- 
terludes, but  watch  we  our  actors :  Gervase  Poore, 
serving  his  term  in  a  lawyer's  office ;  haunting  his 


THE  CARDINAL  ASSUMPTION      13 

lady's  whereabouts  o'  nights,  flaming  in  her  wake 
like  phosphorus  of  the  sea;  hymning  her  heaven- 
high  in  verse,  and  hectoring  her  with  scowling 
brows,  driving  her  (poor  gentle  soul)  along  his 
appointed  thorny  way:  watch  we  him  for  one. 
Monthermer,  next,  or  Devizes,  trim-whiskered, 
blue-eyed,  armed  at  all  points,  guiding  his  country's 
chariot  from  his  chair  at  White's,  measuring  the 
death-pangs  of  millions,  taking  counsel  and  what 
not  from  his  Egeria,  and  dining  at  eight  sharp  — 
watch  him  next;  and  with  him  anxious  Charles 
Lancelot,  the  young  Treasury  official,  edging  (how 
oddly)  into  power  over  England,  aping  his  chief, 
plodding  the  dusty  pavements  while  his  grace 
soared  serenely  in  the  blue,  running  his  wife's 
errands  or  setting  her  to  run  his  (God  knows 
which).  These  three  men,  and  between  them 
that  tender,  conscientious,  pale  and  slim  woman, 
Georgiana  Lancelot  —  Strangways  as  she  had 
been,  Georgiana  Strangways — ;  most  anxious  to 
do  well,  caring,  of  the  four  of  them,  most  for  Eng- 
land, listening  now  to  her  heart,  now  to  her  con- 
science, distracted,  worn  thin,  pitiful,  but  always 
lovely  and  kind:  a  woman,  not  a  saint;  a  martyr 
but  not  a  champion :  here  's  the  resolving  element. 
And  England,  blind,  groping,  blundering,  groan- 
ing, resumes  all  at  the  end;  and,  if  no  better,  is 
no  worse  off.  Here  's  the  tragi-comedy  of  Mrs. 
Lancelot,  and  I  Ve  set  the  stage. 


II 

DIANA'S  WEDDING 

THOSE  three  fair  daughters  of  Sir  Peter  and 
Lady  Strangways  • —  of  Thorntree  in  Co. 
Glos. —  whom  Lawrence  painted  and  Tom  Moore 
sang,  Diana,  Georgiana  and  Augusta,  all  married 
well;  that  is  to  say,  they  married  young,  married 
in  order,  and  married  money,  or  place,  or  a  pros- 
pect. Fair  they  were,  in  an  age  when  beauty  did 
not  think  to  be  adorned  by  much  art,  when  the 
bosom  wore  no  jewel  but  its  own,  and  the  com" 
plexion  needed  no  aid  of  the  paint-box;  fair, 
healthy,  wholesome  girls,  well-connected  and  toler- 
ably read.  The  baronet,  a  sturdy  squire,  who  sat 
for  his  county  in  a  borough  of  his  own,  had  mar- 
ried money  as  well  as  degree,  for  his  lady  came  of 
the  house  of  Polk,  and  was  cousin  to  the  reigning 
Lord  Quartern;  and  when  he  went  to  town  for  the 
session  would  take  Mamma  and  a  daughter  with 
him.  The  only  son,  Polk  Strangways,  the  future 
Sir  Polk,  was  serious  and  already  a  minor  canon 
of  Gloucester.  He  was  married  to  a  widow  and 
hardly  comes  into  this  tale.  It  is  not  with  his 
but  with  his  sister's  wedding  that  we  begin. 

14 


DIANA'S  WEDDING  15 

Diana  Strangways,  a  sprightly,  ambitious  young 
Woman,  eighteen,  and  in  the  fulness  of  her  bloom, 
was  shown  at  Almack's  no  more  than  twice.  Lady 

J y  took  her  the  first  time,  and  was  very  well 

satisfied.  So  she  might  be,  seeing  what  followed. 
It  is  Diana  Strangways,  dark-haired  and  glancing 
sideways  and  a  little  upwards,  who  in  the  Lawrence 
group  stands  behind  her  sisters,  and  touches,  just 
touches,  with  her  finger-tips  her  left  breast.  In 
her  hair  is  the  crescent  of  the  huntress.  Later  on, 
this  was  held  to  be  prophetic,  seeing  whom  it  was 
she  married  and  what  came  of  it.  But  to  return 
with  her  to  Almack's:  the  second  time  she  was 

taken  by  that  kind  and  fashionable  Miss  B , 

the  friend,  and  some  say  more  than  friend,  of  old 

Lord  O ,  who  was  not  long  dead.     And  that 

was  decisive  for  Diana,  who  may  be  excused  for  a 
triumphant  note  in  her  correspondence.  Two 
days  afterwards  she  was  proposed  for  by  Sir 
Carnaby  Hodges,  a  Leicestershire  magnate  of  fiery 
face  and  white  whiskers,  twice  her  age  and  a 
widower  with  children.  Diana  demanded  a  week, 
and  took  it,  though  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
before  she  went  to  bed.  Sitting  indeed  upon  the 
edge  of  that  sanctuary,  she  wrote  to  Georgiana, 
her  next  in  age,  not  yet  out,  who  was  at  Thorntree, 
fledging  her  wings  with  a  governess : — "  Sir 
Carnaby  Hodges  has  asked  for  me,  and  I  shall 
accept  him  I  daresay.  He  is  too  stout  for  my 


1 6  MRS.  LANCELOT 

ideal  knight,  and  thinks  of  nothing  but  horses  and 
dogs;  but  perhaps  I  was  flattered  to  be  thought 
worth  adding  to  the  stud.  I  admit  that  he  is 
permaturely  gray,  that  he  has  been  passably 
wicked;  but  I  had  rather  my  husband  had  his 
wickedness  behind  him  than  before.  Now  don't 
pinch  your  lip,  my  dear!  When  you  are  as  ex- 
perienced as  I  am  you  will  appreciate  safety.  You 
are  much  too  romantic.  I  have  always  said  so. 
Mr.  F —  (Need  I  say  that  I  refer  to  Rodrigo?} 
will  despair;  but  not  for  long.  He  is  incurably  a 
rover.  I  told  you  that  he  was  at  Almack's,  hand- 
some and  very  pale,  dressed  all  in  black  —  even  to 
the  shoe-buckles.  He  bowed,  but  did  not  ask  me; 
when  he  had  seen  me  stand  up  with  Sir  Carnaby 
he  turned  away,  and  I  saw  him  cover  his  eyes  with 
his  hand  —  just  for  a  moment,  as  if  to  brush  an 
image  away.  He  did  not  stay  long.  Next  day 
I  received  a  packet  from  him.  I  think  that  he 
kept  one  short  note  —  but  no  more.  He  has 
behaved  handsomely,  you  will  agree.  Now,  my 
dearest  sister,  don't  tease  me.  I  am  resolved  to 
do  my  duty,  and  assure  you  that  I  shall  be  very 
well  at  Rothley.  Not  that  I  mean  to  be  there 
more  than  I  can  help.  I  shall  make  him  sit  —  we 
shall  have  two,  if  not  three  boroughs,  with  all 
respect  to  the  radicals  —  and  we  shall  certainly 
have  a  house  in  town.  I  shall  insist  upon  that. 
Dover  Street,  I  think."  Georgiana,  the  serious 


DIANA'S  WEDDING  17 

one  of  the  three,  was  perturbed  and  wrote  her 
mind  upon  many  pages;  but  they  arrived  a  day 
after  the  fair  Diana  had  accepted  Sir  Carnaby. 

All  this  was  in  March,  the  wedding  in  August, 
in  the  early  days  of  the  recess.  There  was  no 
reason  for  delay,  with  a  sufficiency  of  money  on 
both  sides,  and  Sir  Carnaby  was  anxious  to  get 
back  to  Leicestershire  in  ample  time  for  the  cub- 
bing. He  was  master,  you  must  understand,  of  the 
Rothley,  whose  kennels  were  at  Rothley  Harcourt, 
his  place,  and  did  n't  feel  that  he  could  be  spared. 
Diana,  who  looked  well  on  horseback,  agreed. 

However,  it  is  not  upon  her  wedding  I  wish  to 
dwell,  but  upon  what  happened  to  Georgiana  in 
the  course  of  it.  Lovely  bridesmaid  to  a  hand- 
some bride  —  and  the  adjectives  are  chosen  — 
she  made  a  serious  conquest,  though  she  was 
scarcely  turned  eighteen,  and  in  fact  knew  nothing 
about  it.  But  so  it  was.  In  the  party  from 
Corby,  which  was  Lord  Quartern's  seat  (Lord 
Quartern,  brother  of  Lady  Strangways),  there 
chanced  to  be  a  young  Treasury  official,  one 
Charles  Lancelot,  upon  whom  it  was  currently 
said  the  Secretary  of  State  had  a  favorable  eye. 
If  the  Secretary  of  State,  therefore,  should  be  en- 
trusted (as  everybody  believed)  with  the  forming 
of  an  Administration,  if  he  should  become,  in  fact, 
First  Lord,  the  harvest,  or  a  sheaf  of  the  harvest 
of  that  favoring  eye  might  be  the  young  man 


1 8  MRS.  LANCELOT 

Charles  Lancelot.  That,  then,  was  the  young 
man's  capital,  that  and  his  high  seriousness  in  the 
conduct  of  his  affairs.  A  tall  young  man,  dark 
and  deferential,  urbane,  and  somewhat  conscious 
of  his  urbanity  —  slightly  stooping,  perhaps  nar- 
row in  the  shoulders,  correctly  rather  than  ele- 
gantly dressed,  rather  near-sighted,  exceedingly 
serious;  such  was  Mr.  Charles  Lancelot. 

Discretion  was,  I  believe,  his  foible.  He  may 
have  carried  it  too  far.  There  he  had  a  lovely 
girl  pondering  his  words,  and  he  kept  them  even 
and  general.  He  talked  of  the  Waverley  novels, 
and  considered  with  Miss  Georgiana  how  far  a 
gentleman  with  reasons  for  concealment  might  go 
in  denials.  He  might  feel  justified,  at  a  pinch,  in 
disclaiming  all  knowledge  of  the  matter  —  a  re- 
buke to  impertinence,  binding  him  to  nothing  — 
but  could  he  deny  "  upon  his  honor "  ?  Mr. 
Lancelot  thought  not,  and  quoted  Lord  Lans- 
downe,  at  whose  table  he  had  ventured  the  dis- 
tinction. "  To  you,  Miss  Strangways,"  he  had 
gone  on,  "  such  differentiation  would  savor  of 
hypocrisy.  You  are,  I  can  see,  the  soul  of  truth. 
I  confess  also  that  I  should  myself  be  at  a  loss.  I 
hope  you  will  not  believe  me  capable  of  paltering 
with  the  divine  commands.  I  hope  I  am  a  serious 
person."  At  any  rate  he  took  pains  to  be  thought 
so  —  but  he  went  no  further  in  the  declaration  of 
his  feelings  than  what  I  have  reported.  Upoo 


DIANA'S  WEDDING  19 

politics  he  was  dumb.     I  believe  that  he  hardly 
mentioned  Lord  Monthermer,  who  was  the  Secre- 
tary of  State  with  the   friendly  eye,  more  than 
three  times  a  day  to  her;  and  said  nothing,  believe 
me,  nothing  of  his  eye.     He  spoke  of  his  lord- 
ship's labors  at  Cracow,  where  the  Polish  ques- 
tion, legacy  of  Bonaparte  to  exhausted  Europe, 
was  then  in  debate;  but  only  to  extol  his  manner; 
nothing  of  his  matter.     His  manner,  according  to 
Charles  Lancelot,   was  perfect.     There,   for  in- 
stance, you  had  the  value  of  truth.     "  Lord  Mon- 
thermer, Miss  Strangways,  has  the  lightning-stroke 
upon  affairs.     He  blinds  with  the  bare  truth,  while 
he  rends  the  fogs  of  our  enemies.     Prince  Met- 
ternich  is  no  more  proof  against  him  than  M.  de 
Talleyrand  was.     He  has  been  called  blunt;  but 
his  weapon  pierces,  not  breaks.     At  Cracow  there 
was  a  dead  set  against  him.     The  word  had  gone 
round.     It  was  marked.     His  appearance  in  an 
assembly  was  the  signal.     One  and  all  they  turned 
their   backs   upon   the   hero  — •  the    deliverer   of 
Europe.     It  was  so  noticeable  that  the  Emperor 
himself  felt  bound  to  excuse  his  subjects.     Did  you 
ever  hear  Lord  Monthermer's  retort?     '  Sire,'  he 
said,  '  these  gentlemen  present  me  with  that  part 
of  their  persons  with  which  they  have  made  me 
most  familiar.     So  far  as  I  am  aware  they  have 
nothing  else.' ' 

These  general  observations  were  reserved  for 


20  MRS.  LANCELOT 

the  evening  after  the  ceremony,  when  the  gentle- 
men had  finished  their  wine  and  were  mostly  col- 
lected about  the  tea-table.  Miss  Strangways,  as 
she  was  now  become,  had,  however,  made  her  im- 
pression earlier  in  the  day.  He  had  remarked  her 
for  a  shy  rather  than  a  striking  beauty,  and  con- 
sidered that  pensiveness  sat  well  upon  her.  Her 
merits  of  form  and  feature  had  to  be  sought;  it 
flattered  him  to  reflect  that  she  had  attracted  him 
almost  at  once,  that  no  long  time  had  they  spent  in 
appealing  to  his  discernment.  Closelier  examined, 
she  pleased.  No  very  high  color,  perhaps,  in  her 
face;  but  that  enhanced  the  splendor  of  her  eyes, 
which  were  of  that  hyacinth  blue  one  associates 
forever,  who  has  seen  it,  with  the  Adriatic.  Her 
face  was  rounded  by  a  firm  chin,  her  nose  fine  and 
straight,  her  upper  lip  short  and  proudly  curved, 
the  lower  full  — "  as  though  a  bee  had  stung  it 
newly."  Her  form,  he  considered,  was  enchant- 
ing, the  bust  not  full  but  tenderly  shaped.  Doubt- 
less she  might  have  been  taller,  to  carry  so  proud 
a  gravity  —  but  he  had  never  cared  for  tall  women. 
I  rehearse  the  catalogue  as  he  made  it :  he  was  in 
no  mood  for  fault-finding,  since  he  admired  also 
her  reserve.  Her  manner  was  full  of  courtesy,  he 
thought,  and  yet  she  never  went  an  inch  beyond 
what  was  necessary.  There  was  no  unbosoming. 
He  admired  that,  for  that  again  reflected  upon  his 
discrimination.  So  far  he  went  during  the  pro- 


DIANA'S  WEDDING  21 

gress  of  the  wedding  ceremony  as  to  whisper  to 
his  neighbor  and  hostess,  Lady  Quartern,  behind 
his  hat, 

"  A  charming  bride,  truly." 

"  My  niece,"  said  Lady  Quartern,  by  no  means 
in  a  whisper. 

"  Impossible  to  doubt  the  relationship."  Where- 
at Lady  Quartern,  a  flushed  and  rather  shiny  per- 
sonage, tapped  his  arm  smartly  with  her  fan. 

"  Miss  Georgiana  becomes  Miss  Strangways?  " 
he  ventured  again.  "  One  had  thought  that  would 
be  the  place  of  Miss  Augusta.  They  must  be 
close  in  age." 

"  Georgie  's  eighteen,"  said  Lady  Quartern, 
"  and  Gussy's  hair  is  only  up  for  the  occasion. 
You  '11  find  that  Georgie  will  fill  the  place." 

"With  discretion,  I  should  say  —  she  appears 
to  be  mature." 

"  Good  heavens,"  said  Lady  Quartern,  much 
too  loudly,  "  she  '11  lose  half  that  figure  in  a  year." 

No  conversation  on  these  terms  could  be  main- 
tained by  a  young  Treasury  official.  Mr.  Lancelot 
shivered  into  silence.  Mute  though  he  must  be, 
however,  he  did  not  cease  to  consider  the  figure 
she  made,  there  in  her  shadowing  hat  and  long 
ribbons,  in  her  clinging  white  frock  and  blue  sash, 
gravely  pondering  the  bride's  nosegay  which  she 
carried,  as  if  to  hear  within  its  lily-tubes  the  voice 
which  was  to  proclaim  her  destiny.  She  was,  with 


22  MRS.  LANCELOT 

her  sister  Augusta,  at  the  head  of  the  procession. 
Behind  them  in  a  bevy,  tall  and  short,  plump  and 
willowy,  were  county  neighbors.  Stout  Sir  Car- 
naby's  wrinkled  back  was  within  a  yard  of  her 
nose,  Diana's  train  shimmered  at  her  feet.  He 
thought  to  see  disapproval  of  so  glaring  a  con- 
trast when  for  rare  moments  she  ceased  her 
attention  to  the  flowers  she  held  and  gazed  past 
the  pair  to  the  communion  table,  before  which 
the  horrid  pact  was  soon  to  be  made  irrevocable  — 
"  past  praying  for,"  as  Lord  Quartern  observed, 
more  truly  than  he  knew,  poor  man.  As  if  to 
point  his  suspicions  of  her  questioning  mind,  he 
overheard  the  pew  behind  him  comment  upon  his 
own  text. 

"  Well,  she  's  got  him.  He  's  tallyhoed  once 
too  often  —  now  he  's  killed  in  the  open."  *'  A 
chopped  fox,  eh?  "  And  then,  "  Old  Carnaby  — 
like  a  baron,  of  Christmas  beef  —  what  '11  she 
make  of  all  that  brawn  ? "  And  the  answer. 
"  Make  of  him?  Why,  a  pair  of  steps." 

He  committed  himself  no  more,  either  to  Miss 
Strangways'  charms  or  Lord  Monthermer's  be- 
nevolent greatness,  but  was  silent  on  the  way  back 
to  Corby,  though  rallied  more  than  once  by  her 
vigorous  ladyship.  In  his  memory  remained,  how- 
ever, the  picture  of  the  grave  young  beauty  seek- 
ing her  fate  in  the  lilies;  and  he  had  a  good  mem- 
ory. 


DIANA'S  WEDDING  23 

He  had  sought  her  out,  as  has  been  told,  after 
dinner,  and  next  morning,  before  the  carriage  and 
the  saddle  horses  were  ready  for  the  return  to 
Corby,  he  had  the  privilege  of  a  walk  with  her  in 
the  garden.  She  took  him  over  the  park. 


Ill 

GEORGI ANA'S   FATE 

GEORGIANA  STRANGWAYS,  at  the  age 
of  eighteen,  being  a  serious-minded  girl,  felt 
herself  ushered  to  the  threshold  of  life  by  these 
recent  ceremonies.  She  seemed  to  stand  there, 
looking  through  the  door  at  the  sunny  distances, 
the  dim  blue  hills,  the  far  cumulus  clouds,  gold- 
litten  at  the  edges.  She  was  conscious  of  heart- 
beats. She  seemed  suddenly  to  realize  that  she 
had  something  to  keep,  something  to  take  with 
her  as  she  fared  forth.  Everything  done  to  her 
by  way  of  preparation,  the  curious  ritual,  for  in- 
stance, of  clothes,  by  which  they  uncover  a  girl's 
bosom  and  cover  her  ankles,  put  up  her  hair  and 
cut  down  her  bodices,  seemed  (she  could  not  tell 
why)  to  be  filled  with  symbolism.  She  thought 
now  that  these  things  foreshadowed  Diana's  wed- 
ding, and  forewarned  her  of  hers.  Of  her  wed- 
ding indeed!  That  such  was  to  be  her  portion 
was  a  matter  of  course.  She  had  known  that 
since  she  had  known  anything  at  all,  but  it  had 
been  Di's  affair  which  had  made  the  certainty  a 
fluttering  matter.  Not  that  there  was  much  in 

24 


GEORGIANA'S  FATE  25 

Sir  Carnaby  to  cause  flutterings;  certainly  his  joc- 
ular references  to  beaux  and  belles  and  wedding 
bells,  and  such  like  had  had  the  opposite  effect. 
The  less  he  dwelt  upon  marriage  the  more  chance 
for  her  heart  to  rise  at  the  prospect.  Augusta, 
her  younger  sister,  judging  Sir  Carnaby  and  mar- 
riage with  the  clear,  critical  eyes,  and  from  the  safe 
standpoint  of  fifteen,  had  wondered  how  Di  could 
do  it,  but  Georgiana,  nearer  to  the  brink  by  three 
years,  found  her  speculations  absorbed  in  the  prob- 
ability that  she  herself  would  have  to  do  it  within 
a  measurable  time.  She  was  a  serious-minded 
girl,  to  whom  marriage  meant  by  no  means  en- 
largement, as  it  had  exclusively  to  Diana.  It 
meant,  rather,  a  call.  Some  mysterious  personage, 
a  shape,  an  emanation  —  in  fact,  Love  —  robed, 
possibly  winged,  certainly  crowned  with  a  star  or 
stars,  appeared  at  your  bedside  in  the  gray  of 
dawn,  was  discovered  there  by  your  slow-opening 
eyes,  or  discovered  himself  by  a  touch  upon  your 
forehead.  You  looked  up  awfully  at  his  serene, 
rapt  face.  "  Come,  for  you  are  chosen.  I  will 
show  you  to  the  bridegroom,"  he  said,  or  you 
thought  him  to  say;  and  you  arose  and  followed 
him.  This  was  the  way  of  it;  but  she  did  not 
discuss  the  matter  with  Gussy.  Gussy's  concern, 
ever  since  the  wedding,  had  been  wholly  with  ways 
and  means.  "How  could  she  have  done  it? 
How  could  she?  Georgie,  I  hope  you  won't  be 


26  MRS.  LANCELOT 

so  impulsive.  You  ought  to  be  sure  of  yourself 
beforehand.  Could  n't  you  try  with  Mr.  Mark- 
by?" 

Mr.  Markby  was  a  young  man  from  Gloster 
who  came  over  to  Thorntree  every  Monday  morn- 
ing to  teach  the  rudiments  of  drawing.  Georgi- 
ana  had  smiled.  Mr.  Markby  was  chiefly  re- 
marked in  the  family  for  his  enlarged  knuckles, 
which  cracked  as  he  opened  and  shut  his  hands. 
They  seemed  to  rub  together  like  walnuts.  It 
was  at  this  moment,  or  near  it,  that  Gussy  had 
remembered  Mr.  Charles  Lancelot. 

"  I  thought  he  liked  to  be  with  you,"  she  had 
said.  "  Don't  you  call  it  paying  marked  atten- 
tions, when  they  walk  with  you  like  that,  and  agree 
with  everything  you  say?  " 

Georgiana  showed  a  slight  increase  of  color, 
but  no  embarrassment.  "  He  did  n't  agree  with 
me,  because  I  did  n't  say  anything  in  particular. 
He  mostly  talked  himself." 

"Did  you  fancy  him?"  Gussy  asked,  all  her 
soul  intent  upon  the  answer. 

"  I  think  that  a  very  unpleasant  word," 
Georgiana  had  replied.  "  The  maids  use  it. 
We  don't  consider  gentlemen  like  that."  , 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  do,"  Gussy  declared.  "  We  do, 
but  we  don't  say  so.  That  is  the  difference.  I 
believe  it  will  be  found  out  one  of  these  days  that 
we  are  all  exactly  the  same." 


GEORGIANA'S  FATE  27 

Georgiana  did  not  deny,  but  did  not  for  one 
moment  believe  it.  She  was  a  reader  of  poetry. 
There  was  much  that  was  attractive  in  the  Byronic 
lover  —  a  tempestuous  young  man,  mostly  in  a 
bad  temper,  whose  feelings  of  passion  made  him 
very  uncomfortable,  and  were  vented  upon  the 
women  of  his  acquaintance  with  disastrous  results. 

Other  guests  at  the  recent  wedding  were  re- 
ferred to  at  frequent  intervals  through  that  still 
July  weather.  There  had  been  Mr.  Rose,  for 
instance,  Mr.  Adolphus  Rose,  whose  "  Poems  ex- 
pressive of  Emotions  induced  by  Reminiscence, 
chiefly  of  travel  in  the  Levant,"  met  and  chal- 
lenged Mr.  Wordsworth  on  his  own  ground,  and 
in  the  opinion  of  the  partial  beat  him  there.  Mr. 
Rose  had  been  a  wedding  guest.  His  round  face 
and  red  whiskers,  his  thick  calves,  his  badly-folded 
stock  had  all  been  remarked  by  Miss  Gussy,  who 
did  not  put  him  forward  seriously  as  a  rival  to  Mr. 
Charles  Lancelot.  Georgiana  too  had  remarked 
upon  Mr.  Rose's  peculiarities  but  did  not  admit  it 
to  her  sister.  The  more  she  liked  poetry,  the  less 
she  liked  Mr.  Adolphus  Rose.  If  poets  were  on 
that  model,  better,  by  far,  not  know  them. 

Lord  Monthermer  came  up  for  discussion  —  a 
great  man  indeed.  Did  Mr.  Lancelot  really  know 
him?  Mr.  Lancelot,  it  seems,  really  did.  He 
had  called  him  "  his  chief  " — by  which,  of  course, 
he  meant  "  leader  of  opinion,"  for  chief  in  any 


28  MRS.  LANCELOT 

other  sense  he  was  not  —  at  present;  and  then  he 
had  related  anecdotes.  One  or  two  of  these  were 
regaled.  Gussy,  with  the  uncompromising  eyes 
of  fifteen,  had  measured  them  up  as  they  came. 
"  I  believe  that  Lord  Monthermer  is  greater  than 
that,"  she  had  said;  "  but  I  believe  that  Mr.  Lan- 
celot is  not.  They  seem  to  me  to  be  about  his 
size."  If  Georgiana  had  not  been  so  dreadfully 
conscious  of  the  brink,  of  the  pending  apparition 
of  the  tall  and  serene  angel,  of  the  voice  saying 
"  Come,"  she  would  have  been  able  to  agree  with 
her  sister.  But  just  now  all  men  seemed  to  be 
enhanced  by  a  premonitory  glow,  a  sort  of  false 
dawn.  She  felt  conscious  that  Mr.  Lancelot  must 
not  be  touched  by  such  a  daring  hand;  was  certain 
that,  at  any  rate,  she  could  have  no  part  in  such 
criticisms.  It  seemed  proper  to  tell  Gussy  that  she 
did  n't  know  what  she  was  talking  about;  and  that 
would  have  been  done  if  she  could  have  been  cer- 
tain of  the  command  of  her  blushes.  As  it  was, 
she  dismissed  the  subject  with  a  sarcasm.  "  We 
are  talking  like  the  people  in  the  servants'  hall," 
she  said.  "  Let 's  be  reasonable,  my  dear.  One 
wedding  should  last  a  family  for  a  long  time." 

"  It  never  does,"  Gussy  said.     "  They  're  fear- 
fully catching  things.     I  wish  it  was  my  turn." 

Letters  began  to  come,  in  due  course,  from  the 
adventurous  Diana,  telling  chiefly  of  hunting  feats 


GEORGIANA'S  FATE  29 

with  the  Rothley.  Nothing  about  Sir  Carnaby's 
affection.  She  would  certainly  stay  in  the  country 
till  February,  when  Parliament  was  to  meet,  and 
they  should  all  find  one  another  in  London.  Papa 
would  come  to  town,  of  course,  as  usual.  "  I 
have  n't  a  house  yet,  which  is  rather  vexing,  as  I 
am  telling  my  friends  that  they  must  be  sure  to 
rally  to  my  circle.  We  shall  be  mostly  political, 
and,  of  course,  anti-Reform,  but  must  have  a 
sprinkling  of  literary  persons.  They  are  all 
Jacobins,  I  hear,  and  very  dangerous,  like  that 
dreadful  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  who  spends  so  much 
time  in  prison.  But  Carnaby  knows  somebody 
who  knows  Mrs.  Nelthorpe.  If  we  could  get 
her !  I  am  told  she  is  extremely  witty.  And  her 
beauty  is  undeniable.  I  still  hope  for  Dover 
Street,  though  Carnaby  vows  that  it  will  ruin  him. 
Your  friend  Mr.  Lancelot  has  chambers  in  Albany, 
I  am  told.  I  have  asked  him  to  call.  He  was 
staying  with  the  Burntislands  the  other  day,  but 
did  not  hunt.  I  met  him  at  dinner.  He  spoke 
guardedly  of  you.  I  must  say  he  is  a  prudent 
young  man  (he  cherishes  his  future !),  but,  I  think, 
very  handsome.  Carnaby  calls  him  a  goose,  a 
parboiled  goose.  He  is  very  violent,  but  as  good 
as  gold,  the  most  manageable  of  men  when  you 
have  found  out  his  little  peculiarities.  They  are 
very  small.  For  one  thing,  he  hates  being  kept 
waiting  for  dinner,  and  though  devoted  to  me, 


30  MRS.  LANCELOT 

never  dreams  of  restraining  his  fury  if  that  hap- 
pens. He  pulled  the  bell  down  twice  last  week, 
and  once  rushed  into  the  kitchen  and  called  Mrs. 
Pownace  an  old  b — h.  He  called  her  other  things 
besides,  but  my  pen  refuses  the  task  of  reporting 
all  that  he  said.  As  I  say,  dearest,  he  is  my  slave 
at  all  other  times  —  but  not  then.  I  admit  it. 
And  in  the  field  he  is,  of  course,  supreme.  I  have 
not  a  word  to  say.  With  these  trifling  drawbacks 
I  am,  as  I  ought  to  consider  myself,  the  most  for- 
tunate of  women.  His  drinking  powers  have  been 
shamefully  exaggerated."  The  letter  finally  con- 
cluded, "  Now,  my  dearest  Georgie,  won't  you 
make  us  happy  by  a  visit?  I  assure  you  Carnaby 
expects  it,  and  frequently  refers  to  it.  '  Your 
pretty  sister,'  he  calls  you,  or  '  that  pretty  demure 
little  rogue.'  Indeed,  he  thinks  a  great  deal  of  you, 
and  has  a  high  opinion  of  your  capacity.  Charles 
Lancelot  is  not  nearly  good  enough  for  you, 
though  he  admits  that  with  the  Marquis's  interest 
he  might  do  great  things."  The  invitation  was 
pressed,  and  accepted.  Georgiana  stayed  three 
months  in  Leicestershire,  and  the  interest  which 
Mr.  Lancelot  had  inspired  in  the  bosom  of  Lady 
Hodges  was  reinvested  in  his  favor  with  a  will. 
It  is  surprising  what  momentum  a  man  may  ac- 
quire in  this  manner.  Lancelot  did  nothing,  and 
for  all  that  appeared  may  have  intended  nothing 
at  all ;  but  he  got  himself  fixed  in  the  girl's  head 


GEORGIANA'S  FATE  31 

as  impending.  It  would  have  required  a  very 
resolute  or  very  impetuous  wooer  to  have  out- 
valued him  —  so  long  as  he  said  nothing. 

But  though  she  spent  Christmas  with  her  sister, 
and  though  the  Hodges'  revels  were  loud  and  long 
and  frequent;  though  she  danced  out  the  pointed 
toes  of  her  little  shoes  half  a  dozen  times  before 
February  came, —  there  were  no  other  suitors. 
The  young  bloods  of  Leicestershire  —  a  Corin- 
thian county  —  looked  for  more  positive  charms 
in  a  partner  than  clear  gray  eyes,  a  delicate  flush, 
and  a  Greek  profile.  Were  her  eyes  gray  or  blue? 
It  is  difficult  to  be  precise,  since  they  varied  with 
the  light.  When  the  candles  came  in,  they  showed 
all  black.  In  the  mornings  they  were  almost  cold 
in  their  grayness;  and  at  noon  they  were  hyacin- 
thine,  like  a  summer  sea.  Large  they  were,  too, 
and  limpid,  and  could  be  very  tender.  Dangerous 
eyes,  you  would  have  said,  but  not  to  Leicester- 
shire, which  demanded  sparkle.  Now  Georgiana 
was  of  the  sort  which  does  not  sparkle  provoc- 
atively, but  only  when  kindled;  and  Leicestershire 
had  not  that  to  inflame  her.  As  we  should  say 
now,  the  county  bored  her;  and  so  it  was  that  she 
did  not  impress  the  county.  She  was  too  quiet, 
and  when  she  did  speak,  too  direct.  She  never 
had  the  vapors,  she  was  slow  to  move ;  she  had  no 
affectations,  did  not  cling  to  the  house  on  wet  days 


32  MRS.  LANCELOT 

or  haunt  the  shrubberies  on  showery  ones.  She 
neither  swooned  nor  clouded  with  tears;  and  on 
the  other  hand,  she  did  not  ride  to  hounds. 
Again,  she  was  a  reader,  and  Leicestershire  read 
nothing;  again,  she  was  not  blue.  Now,  Leicester- 
shire said,  a  girl  should  be  one  thing  or  another; 
but  she  must  needs  be  expressed  by  negatives  at 
this  period  of  her  life.  There  were  many  things 
that  she  was  not;  and  what  things  she  may  have 
been  it  passed  the  wit  of  Leicestershire  and  the 
Rothley  Hunt  to  discover.  Stalwart  young  men 
in  high-collared  coats  pressed  her  to  their  hearts 
and  whirled  her  about  —  up  the  middle  and  down 
again,  and  so  on.  She  danced  beautifully,  like  a 
fairy,  said  the  poetical.  You  could  hardly  see  her 
feet,  said  some.  She  was  so  light  that  you 
could  n't  be  sure  you  had  her.  "  Now  a  man 
wants  an  armful,  Lady  Hodges.  'Pon  my  honor, 
your  charming  sister  is  a  feather-weight.  Sylph- 
like,  eh  ?  So  she  is.  But  we  look  for  bone  in  the 
shires."  Diana,  herself  of  the  dainty  type,  knew 
that  it  was  no  good  saying  anything  to  Georgie. 
Georgie  was  obstinate  and  very  deliberate.  But 
she  was  thrown  away  upon  Leicestershire,  which 
thought  Diana  capital  fun,  and  that  a  girl  should 
be  like  an  apple  dumpling. 

Georgiana's  own  view  of  herself  was  very  de- 
pressed at  this  time,  and  perhaps  it 's  no  wonder. 
She  was  conscious  that  she  had  taken  her  first 


GEORGIANA'S  FATE  33 

flight  through  the  door,  and  had  not  pleased. 
She  wrote  herself  down  as  humdrum,  guardedly 
(as  was  her  manner)  to  Gussy  at  home,  but  more 
freely  in  her  journal.  "  They  have  nothing  to 
say  to  me,  and  I  nothing  to  them.  They  come 
bouncing  in  from  their  hunting,  full  of  appetite; 
look  me  all  over  as  if  wondering  where  to  begin, 
fall  to  with  zest,  and  then  put  me  on  the  side  of 
the  plate  —  all  gristle  and  little  bones,  like  an  old 
French  partridge.  Must  men  always  be  so  red, 
I  wonder?  These  all  look  as  Marsyas  must  have 
been  when  Apollo  had  taken  off  a  skin.  They 
shine  with  health;  and  when  they  get  rather  old 
they  take  a  purple  tinge.  .  .  .  We  hardly  ever 
see  them  after  dinner,  or  if  we  do,  had  rather  not. 
.  .  .  The  only  book  in  this  house  is  Blair's  "  The 
Grave."  There  are  other  things  in  boards  which 
I  cannot  admit  as  books."  Later  on  we  find: 
:'  We  dined  at  Saxelby,  and  my  fate  was  men- 
tioned. He  had  been  coming,  but  was  detained 
at  the  last  minute.  I  saw  his  letter  of  excuses  — 
very  polite,  but  formal.  No  name." 


IV 

THE    SUIT 

SIR  PETER  STRANGWAYS,  who  was  a 
fine-looking  man,  and  sat  for  a  borough  of  his 
own,  came  up,  as  his  custom  was,  to  London  in 
February,  knowing,  as  he  always  did,  that  he  was 
a  fool  for  his  pains.  He  could  easily  have  got 
a  pair,  and  what  is  the  use  of  being  able  to  put 
yourself  in  Parliament  if  you  cannot  take  yourself 
out  of  it  when  it  suits  you  ?  In  the  county  he  was 
something,  in  London  much  less.  In  the  county 
he  had  his  broad-eaved,  wide-winged  house,  his 
park,  his  lime-tree  avenue,  his  lake,  his  farms, 
his  Petty  Sessions  and  his  Quarter  Sessions.  In 
London  he  had  dark  lodgings  in  Wimpole  Street, 
his  club  window  for  mornings  and  the  House  for 
afternoons.  He  made  his  bow  on  birthdays,  and 
saw  his  wife  into  her  chariot  for  drawing-rooms. 
Then  he  went  back  into  the  dark  lodging  and  stood 
tapping  his  teeth  with  his  glasses  at  the  window 
until  it  was  time  to  go  back  to  the  House.  To 
be  a  baronet,  and  not  a  very  rich  baronet,  in 
London;  to  have  for  your  wife  an  honorable  lady, 
whose  family  did  little  or  nothing  for  you,  and 

34 


THE  SUIT  35 

stayed  in  the  country  when  it  might  have  been 
your  right  hand  in  town  —  these  were  unsub- 
stantial privileges.  Sir  Peter  never  spent  a  session 
in  this  manner  without  swearing  it  should  be  the 
last.  But  this  particular  session  had  an  impor- 
tance of  its  own,  he  had  been  told. 

It  is  true  that  one  of  the  first  to  call  in  Wimpole 
Street  was  a  tall  and  serious-faced  young  gentle- 
man, dark,  grave-eyed,  circumspect  and  cold  in 
manner  who,  alighting  from  a  bay  horse  and  hand- 
ing up  the  reins  to  a  groom,  tapped  the  knocker 
briskly  and  gave  the  name  of  "  Mr.  Charles  Lance- 
lot, to  wait  upon  her  ladyship."  It  is  true  that, 
one  of  the  first,  he  was  also  one  of  the  most  per- 
sistent. But  it  is  also  true  that,  to  Sir  Peter 
Strangways,  who  was  an  open-minded  man,  he  was 
one  of  the  most  insupportable  of  his  wife's  guests. 
Sir  Peter,  indeed,  disliked  Mr.  Lancelot,  for  he 
was  afraid  of  him,  and  only  called  him  a  whipper- 
snapper  or  a  hop-o'-my-thumb  when  he  was  not 
there  —  when  nobody,  in  fact,  was  there  but  his 
coachman  who  served  him,  in  London,  for  valet 
and  buckled  his  stock  for  him  as  if  it  were  breech- 
ing, with  a  knee  elevated  towards  (but  just  not 
touching)  the  small  of  his  back.  The  saucy  Miss 
Augusta  used  to  surmise  that  Plumer  whistled  at 
her  papa,  and  said,  "  Woo,  'oss,"  and  "  Stand 
steady,  ye  old  foxy,"  as  he  buckled  and  strapped 
him.  But  this  was  only  surmise,  because  Miss 


36  MRS.  LANCELOT 

Augusta,  still  in  pig-tails  and  rather  short  skirts, 
remained  at  Thorntree  with  her  governess,  Miss 
Tinsley.  To  the  trusty  Plumer  it  was  that  Sir 
Peter  confided  his  distrust  of  the  sober  young 
gentleman,  by  nods  and  winks,  by  veiled  references 
to  "  young  Mr.  Superfine,"  or  "  young  Buckram," 
or  open  declarations  that  he  was  not  going  to  be 
downed  by  a  young  god  in  breeches.  Plumer,  for 
his  part,  found  consolation  in  the  horse  which  Mr. 
Lancelot  bestrode.  The  gentleman  had,  said 
Plumer,  a  good  seat  and  good  hands;  and  if  he 
could  sit  that  spanking  bay,  the  plague  was  in  it 
if  he  could  n't  be  trusted  with  a  wife.  Where- 
upon, "  Who  said  he  wanted  a  wife,  you  fool?  " 
would  cry  Sir  Peter  with  a  snort,  and  Plumer  stood 
rebuked. 

Mr.  Lancelot,  however,  pursuing  a  line  of  con- 
duct which  he  had  thought  out  beforehand  as  suit- 
able to  the  occasion,  was  extremely  deferential  to 
Sir  Peter  (whom  he  called  "  sir "  and  bored 
extremely)  ;  to  her  ladyship,  who  liked  good  man- 
ners; and  to  Miss  Strangways,  whom  he  never 
called  Miss  Georgiana.  That  was  a  country  trick, 
perhaps,  and  Mr.  Lancelot  was  a  very  Londonish 
young  man.  Besides,  he  had  his  ideas  and  his 
line  of  conduct.  Briefly,  this  may  be  indicated  as 
implying  attentions  and  expecting  them.  Lady 
Strangways  quite  understood.  Nothing  was  said, 
but  everything  was  implied.  Georgiana,  stand- 


THE  SUIT  37 

ing  in  her  delicate  beauty  before  the  open  door, 
was  to  be  reasoned  into  wedlock  by  those  tremen- 
dous silent  arguments  which  stated  nothing  and 
assume  everything. 

She  had  nobody  to  advise  her,  nobody  in  whom 
she  could  have  confided  even  if  she  had  been  of 
the  temper  for  confidences.  Her  dreams  of  a 
lover  heralded  at  dawn  by  an  angel,  a  finger  on 
his  lip  and  the  message  alight  in  his  eyes,  of  love 
like  a  warm  wind  enwrapping  her,  wafting  her 
out  through  the  door  into  the  sunny  space  beyond 
—  why,  they  were  dreams,  of  course.  Before  the 
measured  advance  of  the  severe  young  Treasury 
clerk  they  melted  as  the  hoar-frost  on  the  lawn. 
Without  knowing  it,  without  a  plain  word  she  had 
accepted  the  position.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
done  but  to  lay  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  wait.  As 
for  her  dreams,  now  she  dreamed  no  more;  and  if 
the  truth  must  be  told,  instead  of  "  Lalla  Rookh  " 
and  "  The  Corsair,''  instead  of  "  Marmion  "  and 
'  The  Pleasures  of  Memory  "  she  now  applied 
herself  to  Mr.  Burke's  "  Reflections  on  the  French 
Revolution,"  and  did  her  best  to  admire  the  "  Let- 
ters of  Junius." 

The  course  of  this  ordered  wooing  may  be  briefly 
indicated.  Mr.  Lancelot  called  frequently,  dined 
three  times  in  Wimpole  Street,  brought  cards  for 
Almack's,  tickets  for  the  opera,  rode  beside  the 
Strangways'  carriage  in  Hyde  Park.  When  Geor- 


38  MRS.  LANCELOT 

giana  was  presented  he  offered  a  bouquet;  wher- 
ever she  was  taken,  to  rout,  assembly  or  ball,  he 
was  present.  He  danced  correctly  but  without 
vivacity.  He  could  not  make  a  false  step,  was 
incapable  of  a  happy  one.  At  intervals,  but  never 
in  privacy,  he  conversed  with  Georgiana  —  on 
politics,  on  foreign  travel  (he  had  made  the 
French-Italian-Swiss  tour,  but  had  not  been  to  the 
Levant) ,  upon  the  Fine  Arts,  upon  English  liter- 
ature —  but  not  poetry.  Poetry,  he  owned,  fa- 
tigued him.  Much  of  it  he  thought  subversive 
of  morals,  but  admitted  the  elegance  of  Pope  and 
the  didactic  force  of  Johnson;  some  of  it  was  surely 
merely  laxative.  If  he  must  read  modern  poetry, 
it  should  be  that  of  Mr.  Crabbe.  He  found  there 
a  measure  of  judgment  which  could  hardly  perhaps 
be  better  stated  in  a  blue-book.  "  To  be  elegant, 
Miss  Strangways,  should  not  involve  inexactness 
of  statement;  a  refined  understanding  may  coexist, 
surely,  with  sound  brain-work.  In  Mr.  Crabbers 
curious  tales,  my  intelligence  is  never  shocked. 
Lawful  curiosity  is  gratified;  amusement  is  not 
absent;  taste  is  admitted.  Mr.  Crabbe  rarely 
offends  the  most  refined  sensibility.  I  am  sure 
that  you  must  admire  this  poet."  Georgiana 
faintly  defended  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Lord  Byron's 
work  she  did  not  attempt  to  discuss. 

All  this  was  very  oppressive,  but  quite  custom- 
ary.    Everything    went    as    everything    in    such 


THE  SUIT  39 

affairs  did  go  —  by  assumption.  Georgiana's  pa- 
rents assumed  the  wooer,  assumed  the  wooed; 
Georgiana  herself  assumed  Mr.  Lancelot's  desires, 
and  was  ready,  at  the  word  of  command,  to  assume 
her  own ;  and  as  for  Mr.  Lancelot,  he  assumed  all 
that  could  be  assumed;  assumed  himself  desirable, 
and  desired,  assumed  his  future  and  her  interest 
in  it;  was  ready,  in  fact,  to  "  assume  the  God." 
There  were  no  raptures  anywhere,  in  any  bosom. 
Mr.  Lancelot  was  no  Giaour  who  would  carry  her 
heart  and  understanding  by  storm;  and  yet  it  was 
evident  that  she  had  found  favor  in  his  eyes. 
Modest-minded  as  she  was,  she  had  to  admit  that. 
She  knew,  that  is,  that  he  admired  her,  knew  that 
she  was  being  courted.  His  eyes,  for  instance, 
swept  the  assembly  the  moment  he  entered  it  until 
they  had  found  hers,  after  that  never  left  them  for 
long.  He  was  always  at  hand  to  escort  her  in  or 
out  of  a  room;  when  she  spoke  he  was  all  at- 
tention; when  she  remained  long  silent,  he  became 
silent  also.  What  she  did  not  know  was  that  he 
was  really  in  love  with  her,  in  his  sedate  and 
cautious  way.  So  far  as  he  had  a  passionate  need 
it  was  for  her.  So  far  as  he  realized  womanly  per- 
fections he  saw  them  in  her.  He  admired  her 
quiet  and  clear  beauty,  respected  her  good  sense, 
believed  that  he  should  work  the  better  and  ad- 
vance the  higher  with  her  beside  him.  He  was 
really  proud  that  so  great  a  man  as  the  Marquis 


4o  MRS.  LANCELOT 

of  Monthermer  should  have  him  in  his  eye,  not 
for  the  glory  it  was  to  his  repute,  but  that  he  might 
throw  himself  all  glorious  as  he  might  be  at  Geor- 
giana's  feet.  That  is  the  real  thing;  that  is  genu- 
ine love;  but  he  was  quite  incapable  of  expressing 
it,  and  would  indeed  have  been  shocked  at  the 
notion  of  such  a  thing.  He  would  have  judged  it 
the  height  of  indecorum,  being  one  of  those  in- 
numerable Englishmen  who  have  been  reared  up 
to  distrust  every  instinct  which  may  be  the  subject 
of  thought.  To  love  is  not  shameful,  perhaps; 
but  to  admit  yourself  a  lover,  to  act  like  one,  is 
unbecoming.  So  we  disguise  our  feelings,  and  in 
the  marriage  service  are  careful  to  inform  the 
world  that  the  sacrament  was  instituted  for  the 
procreation  of  children.  This  was  a  statement 
which  young  Mr.  Lancelot  would  have  quite  seri- 
ously maintained. 

So  the  affair  ran  its  appointed  course  before  her 
very  eyes.  She  saw  herself  passive,  with  quiet 
limbs,  watching  indifferently  all  the  stages  of  the 
assault.  The  spring  passed,  the  summer  came  to 
the  full,  the  prorogation  was  in  sight  before 
Charles  made  any  serious  attack.  He  hovered,  he 
hovered  forever;  he  was  assiduous,  implied  devo- 
tion in  every  stoop  of  his  shoulders  toward  her. 
He  was  overpoweringly  attentive,  and  Georgiana, 
wondering  in  her  own  mind  that  she  was  not  over- 
come, was  shocked  at  her  want  of  sensibility.  She 


THE  SUIT  41 

sat  like  a  shadowed  dove,  and  listened  while  he 
did  everything  but  woo  her.  But  at  last,  being  so 
much  upon  her  mind,  he  got  to  be  upon  her  nerves; 
so  that  when  one  night  in  July  —  at  D — e  House, 
at  a  great  assembly* — he  quite  suddenly  changed 
his  tone,  and  with  tremulousness  said,  "  Miss 
Strangways  —  beloved  Miss  Strangways  —  par- 
don me  —  Georgiana !  I  can  contend  no  longer 
with  my  feelings.  Let  me  implore  you  to  listen  to 
my  vows  of  devotion  —  let  me  assure  you  that  my 
happiness,  welfare,  hopes  are  centered  in  you ! 
By  this  hand  " —  which  he  now  took  — "  I  beseech 
you  to  tell  me  —  may  I  hope  that  you  have  some 
regard  for  me?"  When  this,  quite  suddenly, 
came  beating  at  her  ears  like  wings,  she  was  so 
much  disconcerted  by  the  strain  that  she  burst  into 
tears,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  Mr.  Lance- 
lot, moved  at  last  to  forget  himself  and  his  duties 
to  society,  was  disturbed;  he  entreated  her  to  calm 
herself,  and  offered  to  go  away.  She  had  no 
reply  for  him,  being  incapable  of  speech,  and  very 
much  ashamed  of  herself,  although  it 's  true  her 
heart  was  saying  to  her  all  the  time,  "  You  foolish 
girl,  you  see  that  after  all  you  have  sensibility." 
Another  assumption  was  added  to  the  heap.  It 
was  true  enough  that  she  had  sensibility,  but 
very  doubtful  whether  Lancelot's  personality  had 
evoked  it. 

There  was  nothing  for  it,  however,  just  now  but 


42  MRS.  LANCELOT 

to  ask  him  to  go  away.  She  did  it  by  an  appeal- 
ing look  —  a  momentary  thing.  He  bowed  and 
left  her.  She  hid  herself,  so  far  as  she  could,  in 
the  shrubberies  which,  on  this  gracious  summer 
night,  were  at  the  disposal  of  the  ducal  guests,  but 
presently  returned  to  the  shelter  of  her  mother's 
turban  and  feathers.  Lady  Strangways,  after  one 
keen  look,  realized  what  had  taken  place,  and 
really  felt  that  all  was  as  it  should  be.  Tears  in 
a  courtship  were  as  proper  as  a  rash  to  measles. 

She  was  not  a  bad  sort  of  woman  by  any  means, 
but  there  was  no  reason  why  she  should  rise  above 
her  natural  capacity.  She  had  been  trained  with- 
out intelligence,  and  had  not  very  much  of  her 
own.  She  thought,  so  far  as  she  thought  at  all, 
in  maxims  like  those  we  have  in  our  copy-books; 
and  she  had  no  feelings  to  speak  of,  and  not  much 
sensation.  Any  kind  of  intimacy  with  her  children 
was  out  of  the  question,  and  would  have  been  to 
her  mind  improper.  Her  husband  was  always 
Sir  Peter,  even  to  herself.  Her  instincts,  toward 
him  and  toward  their  joint  issue,  were  functions 
rather  than  desires.  She  was  incapable  of  seeing, 
therefore,  why  Georgiana's  affair  should  be  more 
serious  to  Georgiana  than  Diana's  had  been  to 
Diana,  or  her  own  to  herself.  She  disregarded 
the  signs  of  distress  in  the  girl's  shining  eyes  and 
storm-painted  cheeks,  and  contented  herself  by  say- 
ing on  the  way  home  that  she  would  speak  with 


THE  SUIT  43 

her  after  breakfast  in  the  morning-room.  Geor- 
giana,  dumb  beside  her,  murmured,  "  Very  well, 
Mamma,"  and  betook  herself  to  her  bed.  Before 
going  thither  she  knelt  beside  it  and  begged  God 
very  earnestly  to  inform  her  heart  with  love  for 
Charles.  She  so  named  him  for  the  first  time. 
Then,  too  serious  to  cry  any  more,  she  composed 
herself  for  sleep  as  a  novice  might  upon  the  eve 
of  her  initiation.  To-night  a  prayer,  to-morrow 
the  veil;  between  them  calm  sleep  at  the  feet  of 
Providence. 

The  interview  was  short  and  to  the  point. 

"Mr.  Lancelot  —  I  should  say,  Charles,"  said 
Lady  Strangways,  "  has  told  you  the  state  of  his 
feelings,  I  imagine?" 

Georgiana  faltered  that  he  had. 

"  He  seems  to  me  a  very  superior  young  man. 
You  are  fortunate,  I  think." 

Georgiana  murmured  polite  agreement.  "  Very 
fortunate,  Mamma." 

"  Your  prospects  may  be  brilliant  —  far  more 
so  than  poor  Diana's.  Sir  Carnaby  is  respectable, 
but  nothing  more  —  for  that  sort  of  title  gives  no 
real  distinction.  A  knight  has  the  same  style  ex- 
actly. But  Charles  may  make  a  great  figure  in 
the  world.  Politics !  You  know,  I  suppose,  that 
Lord  Monthermer  has  him  in  his  eye?  " 

"  He  has  told  me  that,  Mamma." 
'  That  speaks  for  him  better  than  anything  that 


44  MRS.  LANCELOT 

I  can  tell  you.  If  he  has  got  into  Lord  Mon- 
thermer's  eye  he  may  go  anywhere.  It  means 
talent  and  capacity  —  but,  of  course,  he's  very 
well  connected.  Distantly  he  is  related  to  the 
Drem  family." 

"  I  know  he  is,"  said  Georgiana  without  much 
enthusiasm. 

Lady  Strangways  took  her  hand.  "  Much  will 
depend  upon  you,  my  child.  Lord  Monthermer 
is  a  great  statesman,  of  the  old  school.  He  is 
very  fond  of  the  society  of  young  ladies.  You 
will  find  many  occasions  of  serving  your  husband. 
I  am  sure  you  will  bear  them  in  mind." 

"  I  should  try,  of  course,"  said  Georgiana,  who 
did  not  follow  her  mother's  train  of  thought. 

"  A  great  deal  will  depend  upon  you,"  Lady 
Strangways  repeated,  "  if  I  know  anything  of  Lord 
Monthermer.  And  I  do  know  —  something." 
This  might  have  been  mysterious  if  Georgiana  had 
been  listening.  But  she  had  other  things  to  think 
about,  or  to  feel  about. 

Finally  Georgiana  was  kissed  and  told  to  be  a 
good  girl.  There  the  matter  ended,  so  far  as 
she  was  immediately  concerned.  She  found  her- 
self betrothed. 

At  a  quarter  past  four  Mr.  Lancelot  was  an- 
nounced to  her  ladyship,  kissed  her  hand,  and  re- 
mained for  a  short  time  in  conversation,  standing 
on  the  hearth-rug,  with  one  arm  on  the  mantel- 


THE  SUIT  45 

piece.  Lady  Strangways  presently  desired  him  to 
ring  the  bell. 

"  Ask  Miss  Strangways  to  come  to  me,"  she 
bade  the  man-servant. 

In  due  course  Georgiana  stood^in  the  doorway 
in  her  high-waisted  white  frock  and  blue  sash,  with 
her  piled  hair  showing  the  slimness  of  her  neck 
and  beautiful  shape  of  her  head.  She  was  deli- 
cately flushed  from  the  brows  to  the  bosom,  her 
eyes  were  round  and  very  blue  —  rather  scared. 
Her  lips  were  primly  drawn  into  a  bud. 

"  Come  here,  my  child."  She  came  and  gave 
mamma  her  hand.  She  did  not  lift  her  eyes. 
Lady  Strangways  transferred  the  hand  to  its  new 
owner.  '  Take  her,  my  dear  Charles,"  she  said, 
"  and  be  assured  of  her  affection.  I  am  positive 
that  she  will  be  to  you  all  that  a  wife  should  be. 
Before  you  go,  you  will  of  course  see  Sir  Peter, 
who  is  in  the  library." 

Lancelot,  who  was  really  moved,  looked  at  his 
capture  with  misty  eyes. 

"  I  leave  you  to  your  little  chat,"  said  her  lady- 
ship. '  You  have  to  be  in  the  House,  I  suppose? 
I  know  that  your  time  is  not  your  own." 

Then  she  left  the  room,  and  Charles  Lancelot 
dropped  to  one  knee. 


y 

THE  LETTER 

SIR  PETER  STRANGWAYS,  asleep  in  what 
was  called  the  library,  and  was  only  not  the 
dining-room  because  a  door  was  shut,  received 
the  suitor  with  heavy  cordiality.  He  had  been 
schooled  beforehand. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  sir,  and  I  think  I  may  guess 
at  your  errand.  Cupid  has  been  favorable,  I 
doubt  not.  He  is  a  friend  to  the  bold  —  eh? 
Well,  well  —  I  found  it  so  myself  in  my  young 
days.  Now  let  me  hear  what  you  have  to  say." 

Lancelot  explained  himself.  It  was  not  very 
splendid  perhaps. 

"  Five  hundred  a  year,  rising  to  seven  hundred 
and  fifty!  Ah,  and  a  private  fortune  of  three 
hundred  a  year.  My  dear  young  friend,  in  these 
days  — !  H'm,  h'm  —  we  must  talk  this  over, 
you  know.  We  must  feel  our  way  here." 

Mr.  Lancelot  now  referred  to  the  Secretary 
of  State's  eye.  Yes,  yes,  Sir  Peter  had  heard 
about  all  that.  Had  his  lordship  committed  him- 
self—  on  paper?  His  lordship,  it  seems,  had 
not,  but  was  known  to  be  dissatisfied  with  poor 

46 


THE  LETTER  47 

Spendlove.  Spendlove,  his  lordship  said,  was  a 
donkey.  He  had  told  Lord  Drem  (a  distant 
cousin  of  Mr.  Lancelot's)  that  he  must  get  a  better 
man  than  Spendlove  —  a  man  to  answer  questions 
in  the  House.  Lord  Drem  had  named  his  rela- 
tive, and  a  borough;  had  named  them  in  the  same 
breath.  All  this  had  been  just  before  his  lord- 
ship's departure  for  Cracow  —  where  Spendlove, 
it  seems,  was  not  distinguishing  himself. 

Then  there  had  been  a  conversation  between  his 
lordship  and  Charles.  It  had  been  short  —  but 
Lord  Monthermer  was  always  short  in  conversa- 
tion —  short,  but  rather  memorable.  His  lord- 
ship had  said  that  of  Spendlove  which  Charles  did 
not  care  to  repeat,  and  had  asked  him  (Charles) 
two  questions:  "Can  you  write  a  letter?"  and 
"Can  you  sit  a  horse?"  The  bearing  of  the 
second  question  was  only  visible  to  those  ac- 
quainted with  his  lordship's  habits.  All  such 
knew  that  it  was  his  custom  to  dictate  answers  to 
his  letters  as  he  cantered  in  the  park  before  break- 
fast. Now  Spendlove  was  an  indifferent  rider. 
Further  than  this  Charles  could  not  go;  but  the 
range  of  his  lordship's  eye  was  known  to  be  wide, 
and  it  was  common  talk  in  the  Treasury  that  it  was 
apt  to  center  upon  Charles  in  any  general  assembly. 
Sir  Peter  listened  to  these  suggestive  specula- 
tions with  his  glasses,  as  usual,  beating  a  tattoo 
upon  his  teeth.  In  the  end,  he  admitted  that 


48  MRS.  LANCELOT 

Georgiana  had  ten  thousand  pounds,  and  thought 
that  they  might  do  pretty  well.  He  then  shook 
Charles  by  the  hand,  stretched  himself  and  de- 
clared that  he  should  just  toddle  into  White's  for 
an  hour  before  dinner. 

Charles  Lancelot  took  his  leave  without  seeing 
his  betrothed  again,  mounted  his  horse  and  went 
down  to  the  House  of  Commons  at  a  sober 
walk. 

That  night  Georgiana  wrote  to  Gussy  at  Thorn- 
tree. 

"  My  dearest  Augusta,  I  must  tell  you  my  news, 
which  is  that  Mr.  Lancelot  —  whom  I  must  now 
call  Charles  —  proposed  to  me  last  night  at  the 
Duchess's  ball.  You  will  laugh  at  me  when  I  tell 
you  that  I  was  very  much  surprised  and  that  I 
cried,  and  could  n't  answer  him ;  but  it  is  true  never- 
theless. Of  course  I  had  been  thinking  a  good 
deal  about  him  for  some  time,  as  he  had  paid  me 
great  attentions.  But  I  suppose  one  is  always 
taken  aback  when  it  comes  to  the  point.  I  did 
not  expect  him  to  say  anything,  then,  at  any  rate. 
I  couldn't  say  anything  to  him,  so  (most  con- 
siderately) he  left  me,  but  I  suppose  spoke  im- 
mediately to  mamma,  for  she  told  me  that  she 
wished  to  see  me  this  morning,  and  did  so. 
She  told  me  that  I  was  very  fortunate  and  that  I 
could  be  of  great  use  to  Charles  in  his  career. 


THE  LETTER  49 

She  said  that  Lord  Monthermer,  his  chief  (or  his 
future  chief:  I  don't  really  know  which),  is  fond 
of  ladies'  society,  and  seemed  to  think  that  he 
would  like  mine.  I  must  say  that  that  is  very  un- 
likely, as  he  has  never  seen  me,  and  cannot  there- 
fore know  how  dull  I  am  in  company,  and  how 
much  afraid  of  clever  men.  I  am  very  much 
afraid  of  Charles,  though  he  is  all  kindness  and 
respect.  He  kissed  my  hand  after  mamma  had 
left  him  alone  with  me,  and  spoke  very  feelingly 
about  his  sense  of  obligation  to  me,  and  his  belief 
that  we  should  be  the  happiest  couple  in  London. 
He  was  extremely  kind.  He  went  on  then  to 
talk  of  the  future,  of  his  political  ambitions,  etc. 
He  said  that  in  these  days  of  popular  discontent 
and  dangerous  tendencies  against  the  throne  and 
the  orders  of  society,  it  was  of  the  highest  im- 
portance that  men  of  family  and  education  should 
unite  to  crush  in  their  infancy  all  germs  of  faction. 
He  hopes  for  a  borough  of  Lord  Drem's,  who  is 
a  cousin  of  his,  and  that  then  Lord  Monthermer 
will  make  him  a  parliamentary  secretary,  at  first 
unpaid.  He  thinks  that  he  may  rise  to  be  a  lord 
of  the  Treasury.  To  work  for  me,  he  said,  was 
the  dearest  wish  of  his  life.  His  language  is 
well  chosen  and  very  dignified,  but  grave.  He 
very  seldom  smiles,  never  laughs.  I  still  think 
him  extremely  handsome.  He  dresses  with  great 
care,  and  looks  well  on  horseback.  [Then  follows 


5o  MRS.  LANCELOT 

the  anecdote  about  Lord  Monthermer  dictating  in 
the  park.] 

"  Dearest  Gussy,  do  write  to  me  and  wish  me 
joy.  If  you  had  been  here  I  should  have  had  a 
thousand  things  to  tell  you.  I  expect  that  I  shall 
have  a  betrothal  ring  to-morrow.  I  have  chosen 
pearls,  because  I  love  them  so.  Charles  said  that 
diamonds  were  not  becoming  to  so  young  a  be- 
trothed, though  I  shall  be  twenty  when  I  am  mar- 
ried. He  is  thirty,  which  is  just  the  right  differ- 
ence, I  think.  The  wedding  will  be  at  Thorntree, 
I  'm  glad  to  say,  in  November.  Polk  will  be  one 
of  the  officiating  clergymen,  I  suppose.  I  am  writ- 
ing to  him,  and  of  course  to  dearest  Di.  I  know 
that  she  admires  Charles,  and  I  hope  you  will  too, 
when  you  know  him. 

"  We  shall  be  home  by  the  end  of  the  month, 
I  hope.  I  am  longing  to  see  my  sister  again,  and 
I  wish  to  believe  that  she  shares  the  feeling.  She 
knows  that  my  engagement  will  make  no  difference 
between  us. 

"  Dearest  Gussy,  will  you  contrive  by  hook  or 
by  crook  to  let  Henry  Perrin  know  this  news? 
You  might  get  a  moment  after  church,  or  perhaps 
when  you  meet  him  in  the  village.  I  don't  feel 
that  I  can  write  to  him  very  well.  I  should  like 
him  to  know  if  possible  before  we  return.  Of 
course  all  that  was  quite  hopeless. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  very  happy,  and  very  useful 


THE  LETTER  51 

to  Charles.  It  is  a  great  thing  for  a  girl  to  have 
such  privileges  as  I  have.  Mamma  says  so,  and  I 
am  sure  that  she  is  right.  I  have  a  great  many 
letters  to  write.  There  are  Uncle  and  Aunt 
Quartern,  Aunt  Venables,  to  say  nothing  of  grand- 
mamma ! 

"  Adieu,  dearest  sister,  and  wish  me  joy.< — 
Your  fond  Georgie. 

"  P.  S.  We  are  to  look  at  a  house  soon,  which 
papa  thinks  would  be  suitable.  It  is  in  Smith 
Square  near  Westminster  Abbey  —  very  con- 
venient for  the  House,  when  we  get  there !  " 


VI 

HOUSEHOLD  ACCOUNTS 

THE  wedding  was  done  quietly  at  Thorntree 
on  a  very  wet  and  windy  day.  The  great 
elms  on  the  lawn  before  the  window  rocked  them- 
selves about  and  scattered  their  last  pale  largess 
to  the  sodden  grass.  The  rooks  were  tossed  in 
the  sky  like  black  flakes,  and  in  gusts  the  rain 
battered  at  the  windows.  Church  was  considered 
to  be  out  of  the  question,  so  a  message  was  sent 
down,  at  the  last  minute,  to  Dr.  Mumby,  the 
rector,  to  say  that  the  ceremony  would  take  place 
in  the  drawing-room;  and  Dr.  Mumby  in  due 
course  arrived  in  his  great  riding-cape,  with  his 
canonicals  in  a  little  black  bag.  The  village  was 
greatly  disappointed;  but  they  rang  the  church 
bells  before  and  after  the  wedding. 

There  were  four  bridesmaids.  Diana  had  had 
six. 

Lord  Drem,  a  fine  and  ruddy  man  of  five-and- 
forty,  with  a  very  handsome  wife;  an  elderly  Miss 
Lancelot  (from  whom  her  nephew  had  expecta- 
tions), two  gentlemen  friends  from  the  Treasury, 
and  a  brother,  James  Lancelot,  of  the  Common 

52 


HOUSEHOLD  ACCOUNTS  53 

Law  bar,  represented  the  bridegroom's  party. 
His  sister  Maria  was  a  bridesmaid. 

The  Quarterns  brought  a  small  host  from  Cor- 
by;  and  of  course  Sir  Carnaby  and  Diana  Hodges 
came. 

After  breakfast,  at  which  the  best  speech  by  far 
was  made  by  Polk  Strangways  —  it  was  really  a 
sort  of  sermon,  but  more  optimistic  than  most  ser- 
mons —  the  happy  pair  departed  for  Bristol, 
whence  they  intended  to  take  ship  for  Leghorn 
and  the  honeymoon.  That  was  to  be  spent  in 
Italy.  They  must  needs  be  back  early  in  the  New 
Year,  not  only  because  the  House  would  meet  in 
February,  but  because  Lord  Monthermer  was 
expected  from  Cracow  and  it  was  very  necessary 
that  his  eye  in  its  homeward  sweep  should  en- 
counter and  remain  upon  the  persons  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Charles  Lancelot.  "  We  cannot  afford  to 
seem  negligent  in  such  a  matter,"  Charles  had  told 
his  affianced.  "  I  shall  have  advice  from  London 
—  and  no  doubt  the  court  at  Florence  will  give 
us  news.  I  am  sure  my  Georgiana  agrees  with 
me."  His  Georgiana  satisfied  him  on  that  point. 
That  was  but  one  of  the  many  of  his  assumptions 
which  she  took  up. 

Everybody  agreed  that  the  bride  looked  charm- 
ing. Charles  was  a  tall  young  man  and  beside 
him  she  looked  slim  and  little.  She  was  very  shy, 
and  her  lips  would  have  been  better  for  more 


54  MRS.  LANCELOT 

color.  Her  eyes  looked  enormous,  and  of  so 
dark  a  blue  as  to  seem  black.  "  Not  a  taking 
beauty,"  said  Lady  Quartern.  "  You  have  to 
look  hard  at  her  to  see  her  at  all.  Rather  like 
a  ghost,  you  know.  She  's  thinner  than  she  was 
last  year." 

"  There  's  hardly  anything  of  her,"  her  neigh- 
bor replied  —  old  Squire  Wilmot  of  Dropmore, 
who  wore  gold  spectacles  burning  upon  his  crimson 
forehead,  and  was  never  known  to  put  them  any- 
where else.  He  used  them  for  reading,  it  was 
said,  but  as  he  never  read  anything  — 

"  She  's  a  worrying  girl,  in  my  opinion,"  Lady 
Quartern  went  on.  "  She  '11  get  thinner  than  that 
unless  her  Charles  treats  her  well.  But  so  far  as 
I  can  see  she  might  as  well  have  married  a  ramrod. 
However — "  The  weather,  you  see,  was  against 
enthusiasm;  and  Charles  Lancelot's  manner  dis- 
couraged it.  Lord  Drem  said  that  he  took  her 
as  very  young  members  take  the  oath.  He  him- 
self was  all  in  favor  of  Gretna  Green  and  moon- 
light nights.  As  for  Georgiana,  who  can  tell  what 
her  feelings  may  have  been?  She  was  never  in- 
vited to  reveal  them. 

Haunted  though  she  may  have  seemed  in  her 
veiled  whiteness,  she  was  delicious  when  she  came 
down  in  her  traveling  gear;  her  dark  blue  pelisse, 
her  great  blue  bonnet,  her  furs  and  feathers.  Her 
eyes  sparkled,  her  lips  parted,  her  little  teeth 


HOUSEHOLD  ACCOUNTS  55 

gleamed.  She  kissed  mamma,  was  kissed  by 
papa,  blessed  by  Polk,  hugged  by  Gussy  and  Di. 
She  kissed  a  number  of  the  people,  and  was  kissed 
by  others,  shook  hands  with  the  servants,  and 
jumped  into  the  chaise  and  pair  like  a  bird.  A 
last  whisper  from  Gussy  on  the  steps  of  the  house 
had  made  her  blush;  her  last  look,  sidelong,  was 
for  Gussy,  and  showed  roguery  lurking.  That 
pert  child  had  put  lips  to  her  ear.  "  Has  he 
kissed  you  yet?  "  "  Yes,  of  course."  "  But  prop- 
erly—  ?"  No  reply.  "I  thought  not,"  whis- 
pered Gussy.  " Make  him  do  it"  The  sidelong 
look  had  been  her  reply.  The  postilion  cracked 
his  whip,  the  slipper  was  flung  (gravely,  by  Polk, 
as  if  he  were  scattering  the  good  seed)  ;  off  they 
went,  for  Bristol  and  Leghorn,  and  whether  in- 
deed she  then,  or  afterwards,  followed  Gussy's 
last  injunction  is  not  by  me  to  be  reported,  but  is 
to  be  inferred  by  the  judicious  reader  from  what 
follows.  All  I  know  is  that  her  letters  home  were 
copious,  but,  to  Gussy,  unsatisfying.  There  was  a 
great  deal  about  the  court  in  Florence,  and  much 
about  the  magnificence  of  Rome  —  but  of  Charles 
as  a  lover,  nothing  at  all. 

My  Lord  Marquis  of  Monthermer  came  home  to 
his  country  in  March  of  the  next  year  and  was  re- 
ceived with  every  demonstration  of  gratitude  from 
King  and  people.  His  acts  and  deeds  at  Cracow, 


56  MRS.  LANCELOT 

it  was  universally  admitted,  entitled  him  to  all  the 
honors  of  an  affectionate  race.  England's  honor 
and  material  advantage  had  not  been  forgotten; 
due  regard  had  been  had  for  the  equitable  claims 
of  France,  of  Prussia,  of  Austria,  of  Russia  — 
just  so  much  as  was  their  due  from  our  proud 
island  breed  and  no  more.  The  only  nation  omit- 
ted from  this  catalogue  appears  to  have  been 
Poland.  On  these  grounds  there  were  great  re- 
joicings, and  a  great  reception.  The  King  was 
ill,  believed  to  be  dying,  but  he  had  his  lordship 
down  to  see  him  at  Windsor,  called  him  Tom,  and 
promised  him  a  duchy.  The  populace  greeted 
their  hero  in  a  more  boisterous  but  no  homelier 
fashion.  They  lined  the  Kent  Road,  threw  up 
their  caps.  Some  of  them  shouted,  "  Give  us 
Reform!  "  and  made  his  lordship  grin.  "  I  '11  be 
damned  if  I  do,"  he  said,  for  the  benefit  of  his 
gentlemen.  He  had,  in  fact,  hastened  his  return 
in  order  to  put  a  stopper  on  that  move,  if  it  might 
even  now  be  stopped.  His  hope  was  in  the  King, 
who  was  known  to  hate  it  so  much  that  he  re- 
mained alive  for  the  purpose  of  "  dishing  Grey," 
as  he  put  it  himself.  But  he  knew  that  the  King's 
was  a  precarious  life  —  besides,  as  he  said,  "  He  's 
such  a  liar  that  you  can't  hold  him  anvwhere." 
However,  here  he  was;  here  was  Piccadilly  flam- 
ing with  lanterns  from  end  to  end;  a  crowd  all  day 
about  Wake  House,  and  a  duchy  for  the  asking  — 


HOUSEHOLD  ACCOUNTS  57 

or  without  it;  for  Lord  Monthermer  never  asked 
for  a  thing,  but  waited  until  it  was  offered:  -then 
he  took  it  or  not,  as  might  suit. 

That  was  in  March,  in  mild  and  open  weather; 
but  the  Lancelots  had  returned  in  the  bitter  fogs 
of  January  to  their  house  in  Smith  Square,  and  by 
the  time  the  great  man  was  really  come  the  little 
lady  of  that  house  was  settled  into  a  staid  routine 
from  which,  she  supposed  sometimes,  nothing  but 
revolution  could  ever  move  her. 

Don't  suppose,  pray,  that  she  wished  to  be 
moved  from  it.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  She  was 
an  enthusiastic  housewife,  glorying  in  her  duties, 
taking  them  seriously,  getting  herself  into  a  glow 
of  health  and  beauty  in  their  vigorous  exercise; 
watching  intently  as  a  bird  a  crumb  for  the  daily 
occasion  when  she  could  be  of  service  to  Charles. 
How  she  drilled  her  three  maids,  how  she  lectured 
the  page-boy  (for  his  good),  how  she  overlooked 
the  linen,  saw  to  the  nightly  deposit  of  the  plate 
under  the  bed,  how  she  frowned  over  accounts, 
ordered  dinner,  presided  at  it,  broke  her  little 
heart  over  a  tough  cutlet,  and  mended  it  again 
with  thanksgiving  over  a  good  pudding  —  were 
long  and  foolish,  though  (to  me)  touching  to  tell. 
These  things  are  common  knowledge;  but  so  is 
the  sunshine  over  a  copse,  so  are  the  cloud  shadows 
racing  over  a  hill-flank,  so  the  opening  of  the  rose. 
Like  a  rose  she  opened,  like  a  rose  quietly  bloomed ; 


58  MRS.  LANCELOT 

and  Charles  grew  sleek  and  snug  under  the  minis- 
tration of  her  gentle  hands. 

And  Charles  was  very  kind  to  her,  and  always 
courteous;  and  when  he  reproved  her,  did  it 
kindly;  and  when  she  cried  on  his  shoulder,  he 
patted  hers. 

He  was  grave,  and  preoccupied,  and  immersed 
in  business,  full  of  thought  for  the  morrow  —  that 
is,  his  own  morrow.  Lord  Monthermer  had  been 
expected  in  February  at  the  latest.  He  did  not 
come  till  the  middle  of  March.  Such  things  may 
make  a  young  man  gray  before  his  time. 

Sitting  in  the  little  drawing-room  before  the  fire, 
holding  his  wife's  hand  when  she  offered  it  to  his 
keeping  (but  not  seeking  it),  he  used  to  expound 
his  anxieties  and  to  hint  at  his  ambitions  —  but  on 
these  last,  which  were  boundless,  he  was  very  re- 
served. She  could  only  guess  —  and  did  in  time 
come  to  know  —  how  exorbitant  these  were :  how 
they  were  the  fund  of  poetry  in  him  which  every 
one  of  us  has. 

"  Lord  Monthermer,"  he  used  to  say,  "  can 
save  our  unhappy  country,  and  nobody  else  can  do 
it.  Of  that  I  am  persuaded.  As  our  greatness 
has  been  in  the  past,  so  it  must  be  in  the  future : 
an  anointed  king,  a  patriotic  aristocracy,  a  loyal 
people.  A  wonderful  order,  as  the  Collect  puts 
it  in  our  ancient  formulary.  This  dangerous  and 
growing  cry  for  Reform  really  aims,  not  at  abuses, 


She  would  press  his  hand,  lean   to  him  urgently  and  murmur 
her  assurance 


HOUSEHOLD  ACCOUNTS  61 

but  at  property  —  for  how  else  are  you  to  regard 
a  movement  which  denies  to  persons  of  responsi- 
bility and  influence  the  exercise  of  their  just  rights? 
Once  give  way  to  that,  and  throne  and  peerage, 
church  and  land  —  the  very  fabric  of  England  — 
topple  together  to  the  dust-  of  ruin.  Anarchy 
must  result  —  that  is  inevitable.  You  lay  hands 
on  property,  nothing  is  sacred,  for  everything  in 
this  world  is  subject  to  the  law  of  property.  The 
home!  The  wife!  The  family!  All  these 
sacred  things  depend  upon  property  for  their 
privilege  and  sanctity.  Miserable  fools!  They 
know  not  what  they  do. 

"  Lord  Monthermer,  born  to  rule,  a  natural 
leader  of  men,  will  save  us:  no  other  can.  You 
will  see,  my  love,  you  will  be  able  to  judge  for 
yourself.  His  eye  has  fire  —  the  fire  of  au- 
thority, born  in  him.  He  will  return  —  none  too 
soon  —  he  will  receive  his. warrant  from  the  King; 
he  will  organize  the  loyal  opposition  —  and  he 
will  choose  his  lieutenants.  He  will  choose  his 
lieutenants.  He  will  need  them.  I  can  only  say 
for  myself  that  I  shall  be  ready,  when  I  am  called. 
I  have  had  warnings,  as  you  know,  and  I  have  not 
been  idle.  That  also  you  know.  I  am  sure  that 
my  beloved  wife  will  be  at  my  side,  when  the  time 
comes." 

She  would  press  his  hand,  lean  to  him  urgently 
and  murmur  her  assurance.  They  came  to  be  to 


62  MRS.  LANCELOT 

her  —  these  sort  of  words  —  like  a  call  to  arms. 
All  her  guards  turned  out  to  their  posts.  And 
as  time  wore  on,  the  hero  returned,  the  dukedom 
conferred,  the  attack  on  Reform  massed  for  de- 
livery, and  shock  upon  shock  of  assault  made  and 
re-made,  although  her  slim  sentinels  were  worn 
by  watching,  and  the  summoning  orders  for  them 
became  peremptory,  petulant,  fretful  and  weari- 
some, they  never  failed  of  appearance,  but  with 
the  same  urgency,  the  same  warm  low  murmurs 
assured  their  master  of  loyalty. 

For  the  fact  is  that  Georgiana  was  to  be  two 
years  a  wife  and  one  year  a  disappointed  mother 
before  anything  happened.  But  what  then  hap- 
pened was  in  itself  a  drama. 


VII 

THE   PURSUIT   OF  THE  EYE 

LORD  MONTHERMER  came  home,  I  say, 
in  the  middle  of  March.  His  great  speech 
in  the  House  of  Lords  was  made  in  April.  He 
received  the  thanks  of  Parliament,  a  pension  and 
a  duchy  at  the  end  of  May;  and  not  only  had  his 
eye  not  swept  up  Charles  in  its  ranging  search  for 
a  lieutenant,  but  it  had  swept  up  other  persons  not 
(in  Charles's  estimation)  fitted  by  prospect,  wit 
or  ambition  to  fulfil  that  station.  It  had  swept 
up  Pink  Mordaunt,  an  aging  buck,  well  connected, 
once  a  Whig,  an  incorrigible  gamester,  a  well- 
known  Corinthian.  [But  Lord  Monthermer's 
Corinthian  tastes  were  equally  notorious.]  It 
then  swept  up  Lord  Bernard  Wake,  his  lordship's 
own  second  son,  a  fine  young  man,  a  soldier,  but 
(said  Charles)  without  principle;  and  it  swept  up 
others  whom  it  were  tedious  (as  to  Charles. it  was 
exasperating)  to  mention.  Of  all  this  our  poor 
Georgiana  heard  more  than  enough.  She  burned 
with  Charles,  she  grew  white  with  his  dismay  — 
but  she  had  now  and  then  to  flog  herself  to  do  it, 
for  by  the  time  these  things  happened  her  own 

63 


64  MRS.  LANCELOT 

little  world  was  full.  "  Hints  of  joy,  surmised 
bliss,"  were  hers  —  and  I  don't  know  how  much 
of  her  troublous  time  ahead  was  due  to  the  way 
Charles  took  it.  It  is  the  fact  that  the  one  oppor- 
tunity that  the  year  showed  of  a  recontre  with 
Lord  Monthermer  was  made  frustrate  by  her  con- 
dition. Charles  was  dreadfully  vexed;  but  his 
vexation  shocked  her;  and  that 's  much  worse. 

In  April,  amid  all  the  fuss  and  flurry  of  the 
great  return,  she  knew  herself  to  be  blessed  among 
women.  She  hugged  her  bosom,  she  prayed  by 
her  bed.  She  walked  her  London  with  shining 
eyes.  She  caught  herself  standing  here  or  there 
rapt  in  a  soft  air  of  wonder  and  expectation.  She 
had  not  guessed,  could  not  have  guessed,  what 
this  common  lot  of  her  sex  would  mean  to  her. 
To  have  made  a  man  —  to  have  made  a  living 
thing  —  what  the  poet  knows,  what  the  musician, 
now  she  knew;  and  all  great  tradition,  all  religion, 
all  Heaven  and  earth  cried  sanction  to  her  deed; 
cried  her  holy,  cried  her  blessed.  For  a  week,  for 
a  fortnight  she  held  her  secret;  then  she  whispered 
it  to  Charles  and  hid  her  happy  face  upon  his 
shoulder.  What  were  Lord  Monthermer  and  all 
Parliament,  what  were  the  Treasury  and  all  its 
junior  lords,  what  were  the  Estates  of  the  Realm, 
the  hush  of  the  Senate,  the  seals  of  office,  the 
Great  Seal  itself,  to  the  like  of  this?  O  happy, 
happy  wife ! 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  THE  EYE        65 

Charles  received  the  news  sedately,  as  his  wont 
was,  but  with  great  kindness.  He  kissed  her,  he 
patted  her  shoulder,  his  hand  touched  her  waist 
for  a  moment,  lightly,  then  was  withdrawn  hastily, 
as  if  somebody  had  entered  the  room.  But  no- 
body had.  She  noticed  that,  even  in  the  midst  of 
her  private  tremulous  triumph.  It  vexed  her  into 
inquiry.  Was  he  elated?  Did  he  share  her 
elation?  God  knows.  He  was  too  kind  by  half : 
that 's  the  fact. 

He  spoke  of  the  necessity  of  care,  spoke  of 
drafts  and  chills,  wet  feet.  He  spoke  of  the  pru- 
dence of  abstaining  from  entertainments,  a  pru- 
dence which  he  frankly  admitted  would  be 
unfortunate  "  in  the  present  state  of  our  affairs  "; 
advised  frequent  consultations  with  her  mother, 
luckily  at  hand.  He  mentioned  the  fact  that  his 
own  mother  had  had  nine  children,  of  whom  three 
remained  alive :  in  a  word,  he  was  practical  while 
she  was  dreaming,  he  sat  fast  in  his  chair  while 
she  floated  beyond  him  in  an  ecstasy.  He  had 
begged  her  to  beware  of  chills  —  but  her  worst 
came  from  him.  Yet  he  was  only  himself;  he 
meant  to  be  kind;  and  really,  considering  his  pres- 
sing private  anxieties  about  Lord  Monthermer's 
eye,  he  said  extraordinarily  little  about  the  in- 
convenience of  a  first  season  without  his  brand-new 
wife.  For,  you  see,  if  the  natural  advantages  of 
a  rising  young  official  can  be  enhanced  in  the  rang- 


66  MRS.  LANCELOT 

ing  eye  of  a  gallant  chief  by  a  young  and  very 
pretty  hostess,  it  is  a  serious  thing  that  she  should 
be  put  out  of  action  before  the  first  engagement. 
That  was  a  very  serious  thing;  that  cripples  a 
young  man.  It  was  impossible  for  Charles  Lance- 
lot to  conceal  this  altogether,  though,  as  he  was 
a  gentleman  through  and  through,  he  never  once 
referred  to  it. 

But,  God  bless  the  man,  she  knew!  One  slip 
—  that  guilty  snatching  away  of  his  embracing 
arm  —  had  opened  her  eyes.  Now  she  saw. 
Now  she  could  read  him  like  a  newspaper,  pick  out 
what  mattered  and  leave  out  what  did  not.  She 
knew,  and  knowing  was  at  first  disheartened,  then, 
studying  more  deeply,  dismayed,  and  then  hurt, 
and  then  despondent.  Her  pride  in  herself  threat- 
ened next  to  disappear;  she  struggled  against  that, 
and  she  struggled  against  other  feelings,  physical 
as  well  as  mental.  She  fought  gallantly  for 
loyalty.  She  stood  by  him  as  long  as  she  could: 
she  attended  his  parties,  she  gave  them;  she  jostled 
in  crowds,  hurried  hither  and  thither,  joining  in 
the  chase  of  him  of  the  eye,  who  was  now  Duke 
of  Devizes  and  went  everywhere,  or  seemed  to  go 
everywhere  except  to  just  that  place  whither  — 
poor  little  champion  of  a  lost  cause  —  she  had 
dragged  herself  with  Charles.  The  end  of  this 
sort  of  thing  could  have  been  predicted  by  a 
mother  with  humanity  or  a  husband  less  self-ab- 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  THE  EYE       67 

sorbed.  In  July  she  fell  ill,  and  had  to  be  taken 
away.  She  was  taken  down  to  Thorntree  by  her 
Spartan  mother,  suffered  horribly,  lay  in  misery 
and  torment  (bereft  of  Charles,  who  must  be  in 
town)  until  the  end  of  August.  The  child  was 
born  prematurely  at  the  end  of  the  month,  born 
impossible,  born  dead.  The  one  thing  she  prayed 
for  then  was  that  she  might  die  also.  But  that 
was  denied  her. 

Charles  came  down  by  flying  post,  and  went  to 
her.  He  fell  on  his  knees  by  her  bed;  he  sobbed; 
he  took  her  hand  and  wetted  it  with  real  salt  tears. 
But  he  had  no  words  —  or  at  least  such  words  as 
he  had  were  book  words,  without  heart  behind 
them.  He  had  a  heart,  this  unfortunate  Charles, 
and  kept  it  locked  up  like  a  skeleton.  To  such  as 
he  the  heart  is  a  stultifying,  terrible  organ,  well 
placed  and  properly  placed,  in  the  very  center  of 
the  frame  of  a  man.  It 's  the  only  tolerable  place 
for  such  an  infernal  explosive.  Distrust  it,  says 
Charles,  for  it  speaks  by  feeling,  not  by  principle ; 
distrust  it,  for  it  cries  for  what  it  wants,  not  for 
what  you  ought  to  appear  to  want.  A  man's  repu- 
tation, a  man's  very  honor,  depends  upon  the 
figure  he  cuts  in  the  outer  air.  But  the  heart 
cares  nothing  for  his  figure  and  is  all  for  simplicity. 
Now,  if  you  are  simple,  you  will  be  taken  for  a 
simpleton.  Can  anything  be  simpler  than  that? 
This  is  the  conviction  of  the  Charles  Lancelots  of 

5 


68  MRS.  LANCELOT 

the  world:  upon  it  they  live,  and  their  wives 
perish  of  starvation. 

As  soon  as  she  was  well  enough  to  sit  up  and 
see  her  friends,  as  soon  as  some  faint  flush  of 
blood  began  to  show  again  in  her  cheeks,  this 
devoted  Charles  began  to  talk  about  the  Duke. 
The  Duke!  And  baby  born  dead!  O  hapless 
race  of  men!  He  had  correspondents  in  all 
quarters,  of  course,  and  gave  her  all  the  news. 
The  Duke,  he  understood,  was  to  stay  in  Leicester- 
shire for  the  cub-hunting.  Now  this  was  impor- 
tant; for  possibly  the  Hodges  might  meet  him. 
He  might  even  dine  at  Rothley.  Did  not  his 
Georgie  think  that  a  letter  to  Diana,  giving  news 
of  her  convalescence,  might,  in  a  postscript, 
hint — ?  She  took  the  hint  to  herself,  anyhow, 
and  wrote  her  disingenuous  letter.  She  went  so 
far  as  to  tell  herself  that  anything  is  lawful  for 
the  man  you  love,  and  before  she  had  signed  it 
was  convinced  not  only  that  she  loved,  but  that 
she  was  interested.  Generous  creatures  of  her 
sort  live  upon  their  assumptions;  and  perhaps  it's 
as  well  that  they  do,  seeing  they  have  nothing 
else  to  live  upon. 

Shivering,  therefore,  rather  piteously,  Geor- 
giana  came  back  into  the  world  of  dukes  and 
similar  great  affairs.  But  she  came  back  different. 
There  is  such  a  thing  as  over-anxiety.  Charles  had 
wounded  her,  though  neither  he  nor  she  knew  it. 


VIII 

THE   EYE    CAPTURED 

THE  Mrs.  Lancelot  of  a  year  later,  the  Mrs. 
Lancelot  two  years  a  wife,  was  a  very  dif- 
ferent person  from  her  of  my  recent  exposition, 
that  hesitating,  wistful  little  lady  of  anxieties ;  she 
was  more  possessed,  more  reserved,  much  less 
given  to  enthusiasm.  Her  gentleness  remained, 
with  her  childish  contours  —  that  adorable,  round 
baby  face  which  Gervase  Poore,  the  poet,  in  his 
meteor  flight  across  London,  acclaimed  as  the 
Vision  of  Beauty,  and  those  wide  and  wondering 
blue  eyes  which  made  her  look  innocent  if  indeed 
she  were  not,  and  bespoke  for  those  who  knew  her 
best  her  absolute  candor  —  these  things  remained 
to  her.  But  her  carriage  was  more  definite,  her 
expression  was  more  set;  she  had  composure,  even 
aplomb.  It  was  now  or  hereabouts  that  the  word 
statuesque  began  to  be  applied  to  her  by  her  ad- 
mirers and  friends  —  though  she  was  more  figur- 
ine than  figure  in  the  world. 

But  I  have  marked  another  difference  by  that 
sentence.  She  now  had  admirers  and  friends. 

Admirers  among  the  discerning  she  had,  but 
69 


7o  MRS.  LANCELOT 

very  rare  and  respectful  —  men  like  Count  Peter- 
sen  of  the  Swedish  Legation,  whose  habit  of 
bowing  to  her  first  in  a  roomful  alone  betrayed 
him;  admirers  like  Mr.  Rogers,  who  laughed  her 
Toryism  to  scorn,  and  called  her  "  dear  child  " ; 
friends  only  to  call  them  so,  for  really  she  had  no 
intimates  at  all,  not  a  woman  in  all  London  with 
whom  to  be  bosom  to  bosom.  She  owed  this  to 
her  difficulty  of  utterance,  and  partly  to  her  ex- 
cessive anxiety  to  be  liked.  The  defect  and  the 
desire  often  go  together.  But  certain  women  took 
her  up,  and  one  of  them  was  Mrs.  Mayduke.  She 
was  an  old  friend  of  Lancelot's,  but,  oddly  enough, 
though  she  knew  the  Duke  of  Devizes  quite  well, 
she  did  not  guess  at  the  secret  of  Charles's  anxiety. 
Charles  would  have  bitten  his  tongue  out  sooner 
than  talk  of  his  anxiety  —  not  because  he  was 
ashamed  of  having  it,  but  lest,  having  owned  to  it, 
he  should  afterwards  fail  in  his  quest.  To  be 
known  to  a  Mrs.  Mayduke  as  having  desired  and 
as  having  failed  —  oh,  impossible  !  Yet,  it  was 
under  Mrs  Mayduke's  auspices  that  the  Duke  and 
Georgiana  first  met.  She  was  a  merry,  plump, 
roguish  woman,  with  ample  side-curls,  very  good- 
natured  and  very  indiscreet.  She  made  a  fuss 
with  Georgiana  from  their  first  meeting,  and  en- 
couraged her  young  friend  to  unfold  herself  by 
unlimited  petting  and  open-voiced  admiration. 
She  praised  her  figure,  praised  the  gowns  she 


THE  EYE  CAPTURED  71 

clothed  it  in ;  she  used  to  take  her  hand  and,  hold- 
ing it,  pick  up  her  fingers  one  by  one  and  cry  out 
upon  them.  "Musical  fingers,  my  dear  —  made 
for  the  pianoforte!  How  can  you  neglect  the 
intention  of  Providence !  I  call  it  heartrending. 
With  fingers  like  yours  —  what  a  touch !  Or  the 
harp?  No,  no,  your  arms  are  too  thin.  You 
want  a  great  arm  like  Mrs.  Jordan's  for  the  harp 

—  and  a  Siddons  expression  —  Saint  Cecilia,  you 
know  —  the  divine  Raphael  —  the  soul  sitting  in 
your  eyes!     Now  you,  Georgie,  are  too  reserved 

—  oh,  by  far !     And  your  eyes,  fine  as  they  are  — 
yes,  very  fine  —  are  too  busy  inquiring,  judging, 
watching,  to  have  anything  to  say  to  the  men. 
Mrs.  Siddons,  you  may  guess,  has  a  great  deal  to 
say  to  them."     So  on  she  rattled;  and  Georgiana 
listened,    and    smiled    vaguely,    and    sometimes 
blushed.     But  she  liked  it  all  the  same.     She  liked 
to  be  taken  notice  of,  even  though  it  made  her 
feel  the  more  lonely.     It  shows  how  reserved  she 
was  that  she  spoke  to  nobody  —  not  even  to  this 
ardent  friend  —  of  Charles's  desperate  Duke-hunt, 
nor  of  her  nightly  prayers  for  his  good  fortune. 

Charles,  in  fact,  was  really  growing  gray  with 
anxiety.  His  ambitions  (the  fiercer  for  their 
banking-up)  devoured  his  vitals.  He  was  very 
conscientious,  and  omitted  no  iota  of  his  duties; 
but  the  strain  on  his  concentratlve  powers  was  be- 
coming too  much  for  him.  The  fire  had  quite  con- 


72  MRS.  LANCELOT 

sumed  what  little  demonstrativeness  he  had  ever 
had.  He  began  to  brood  over  his  troubles,  never 
patted  Georgiana's  shoulder  now,  never  took  and 
stroked  her  hand.  When  she  gave  it  him  he  held 
it  limply,  and  offered  her  every  encouragement  to 
take  it  away  again.  He  had  grown  very  silent. 
Strange  what  a  little  they  had  to  say  to  each  other. 
They  passed  long  hours  after  dinner  without  ex- 
changing a  word;  and  he  had  got  into  the  way  of 
discussing  nothing  with  her  but  the  merest  details 
of  daily  life. 

This  was  neither  interesting  to  himself  nor  to 
her;  she  was  now  becoming  a  woman,  this  foiled 
young  mother,  and  to  a  woman  household  cares 
became  meaningless  and  irritating  unless  there  is 
that  within  the  heart  which  gives  them  sanction 
and  reason. 

But  she  had  had  so  little  from  him  at  any  time 
that  she  did  not  feel  his  silence  as  a  change.  Her 
call  to  love  and  cherish  him  remained  as  per- 
emptory as  it  had  ever  been.  Conventional  or 
not,  as  it  might  be,  she  always  heard  it  and 
never  failed  to  answer  it.  Out  she  came,  fully 
armed,  to  look  all  ways  for  that  advantage  of  his 
which  he,  the  fool,  hid  from  her.  Secretive  by 
instinct,  secretive  by  habit  also,  he  was  now  con- 
cealing from  her,  too,  how  anxious  he  was,  how 
inclined  at  times  to  despair;  and  while  she  knew 
this  very  well,  she  did  not  feel  herself  equal  to  the 


THE  EYE  CAPTURED  73 

task  of  taxing  him  with  his  reserve  or  of  dragging 
his  reserves  out  of  him.  She  had  perhaps  learned 
resignation  since  the  loss  of  her  baby.  But  she 
watched  him  closely,  and  suffered  for  him  pure 
pity. 

Meantime,  the  Duke  of  Devizes,  howsoever 
carefully  sought,  remained  close  at  hand,  yet  re- 
mote and  inaccessible.  He  was  often  in  the  coun- 
try, seldom  in  the  House ;  but  his  appearances  and 
disappearances  alike  were  effective.  On  one  occa- 
sion when  there  was  a  motion  for  Reform  brought 
forward  in  the  Lords,  he  appeared  like  a  god 
from  a  machine  and  as  good  as  directed  their 
lordships  to  drive  it  out  —  which  they  did  by  an 
exemplary  majority.  He  did  his  work  with  that 
bluntness,  that  absence  of  parade,  that  directness 
and  that  absence  of  heat  which  were  habitual  to 
him;  and  their  lordships  did  theirs  with  as  much 
enthusiasm  as  they  were  capable  of.  Riots  fol- 
lowed at  Portsmouth,  Rochester  and  Southamp- 
ton, the  quelling  of  which  in  the  last-named  he 
personally  superintended.  His  estate  lay  in 
Hampshire,  and  he  was  Lord  Lieutenant.  His 
popularity  with  his  party  went  up  at  a  bound,  and 
that  which  he  had  in  the  country  stood  the  strain. 
Charles  Lancelot,  his  enthusiastic  admirer,  doted 
upon  the  possibility  of  serving  such  a  man.  So 
much  he  revealed  to  Georgiana,  who  hung  upon 
his  words.  The  Duke  showed  himself  after  this 


74  MRS.  LANCELOT 

in  London  at  one  or  two  great  houses,  and  was 
again  a  familiar  figure  in  Piccadilly  and  the  Park. 
At  the  opera  he  received  an  ovation,  and  saluted 
stiffly  from  his  box,  scarcely  rising  from  his  chair. 
This  was  a  man!  Lancelot  reported  the  incident 
next  day  to  his  wife.  She  assumed  it  admirable, 
in  such  a  man,  though  her  heart  sank  a  little  as  it 
listened.  It  was  entirely  counter  to  her  own 
nature  to  despise  people  because  they  offered  trib- 
ute. She  remembered  afterwards  thinking  to  her- 
self that  she  would  have  thought  more  of  the  Duke 
if  he  had  been  moved  —  say,  to  tears  —  by  such  a 
testimony.  Later  still,  when  she  had  come  to 
know  him,  she  had  to  laugh  at  the  memory  of  such 
a  thought.  Tears  and  the  Duke !  She  had  been 
sure  that  she  would  have  cried  herself.  Lancelot, 
however,  saw  nothing  but  character.  If  the  mob, 
he  explained,  had  execrated  him  he  would  have 
been  as  little  moved.  She  had  to  own  that. 

The  very  next  day,  at  a  party  at  Mrs.  May- 
duke's,  he  was  suddenly  announced  and  walked  up 
the  room  in  her  full  view. 

Sitting  at  the  far  end,  she  was  aware,  as  by  pre- 
science, of  an  impending  event.  She  saw  men 
about  the  door  stiffen  and  move  aside;  she  saw 
deferential  glances,  efforts  to  be  seen.  Then  a 
footman  appeared,  proclaimed  him,  and  immedi- 
ately behind  him  a  spare,  very  upright  man  came 
in  at  the  doorway  (more  completely  at  ease  than 


THE  EYE  CAPTURED  75 

any  one  she  had  ever  seen  before  in  her  life)  and 
gave  two  fingers  to  his  hostess.  Was  this  the  hero 
who  swayed  a  whole  house  of  Peers  ?  He  looked 
like  an  elderly  fox-hunter  —  with  his  shrewd,  side- 
•whiskered,  humorous  face,  with  his  tended  white 
hair,  his  color  of  burnt  brick  and  his  china-blue 
eyes.  His  dress,  too,  had  that  neatness  and  effec- 
tiveness combined  which  such  persons  have.  A 
perfect  Master  of  Hounds  1  And  Georgiana,  be- 
ing romantic,  had  to  explore  diligently  to  find  her 
food  in  this  trim,  little  old  precisian,  whose  every 
look  and  gesture  was  on  the  watch  against  emo- 
tion. She  told  herself  that  all  this  was  studied, 
and  found  the  absence  of  romance  the  most  ro- 
mantic thing  about  him.  So  she  had  once  seen  a 
North  Sea  skipper,  in  a  storm  which  would  have 
made  the  Corsair  sing  like  a  tenor  at  the  opera, 
skirt  the  extreme  knife-edge  of  danger  without  a 
wink  of  his  eyelids. 

She  watched,  with  a  high  heart,  Mrs.  May- 
duke's  obeisance  and  subsequent  effusion  of  wel- 
come ;  she  watched  the  dapper  hero  take  it  all  for 
granted.  She  saw  the  cluster  of  candidates  for 
recognition  or  presentation :  men  and  women  alike 
cast  self-consciousness  to  the  crowd.  She  saw  her 
husband  hover,  saw  him  advance  presently  with  a 
ceremonious  bow,  saw  him  recognized  instantly,  by 
a  scarcely  perceptible  clearing  of  the  strong  face; 
she  saw  two  fingers  in  white  kid  go  out,  and  the 


76  MRS.  LANCELOT 

thin  lips  snap  out  the  words  "How  d'ye  do?" 
She  marked  breathlessly  what  followed.  Charles 
persisted,  and  the  Duke  listened  while  he  looked 
quietly  about  him.  His  keen  blue  eyes  caught 
hers,  rested  a  moment  and  passed  on  beyond  her. 
Georgiana  had  instantly  lowered  her  own,  but  re- 
sumed her  watch  as  soon  as  safety  allowed. 
Charles  then  made  his  great  essay.  She  could 
only  guess  at  it  by  its  sequel.  He  leaned  forward 
and  said  something  which  certainly  held  the 
Duke's  attention.  He  gave  to  it  a  lift  of  the 
eyebrows  and  a  thoughtful  gaze.  He  nodded 
shortly  once  or  twice.  To  Charles's  next  propo- 
sition he  looked  directly  at  Georgiana  and  seemed 
to  be  reading  into  her  beating  heart.  Then  she 
saw  him  move  forward,  accompanied  by  Charles, 
in  her  direction,  shaking  off  the  pack  of  aspirants 
by  some  easy  means  quite  indiscernible.  Before 
she  knew  what  was  about  to  be  she  was  receiving 
his  presentation,  his  stiff  bow,  the  scrutiny  of  his 
unassailable  eyes,  the  good-humored  but  shrewd 
smile  of  his  thin  lips.  His  bow  was  extra-pro- 
found, semi-humorous  in  its  ceremony. 

"  Delighted  to  make  your  acquaintance,  young 
lady,"  he  said. 

Georgiana  was  hardly  mistress  of  herself,  and 
murmured  she  knew  not  what.  The  Duke,  who 
had  no  small  talk,  was  by  no  means  embarrassed 
by  the  lack  of  it,  but  continued  his  searching  and 


THE  EYE  CAPTURED  77 

benevolent  regard  of  her  face  and  form,  as  she 
felt,  without  seeing  it.  Charles,  who  was  very 
nervous,  plunged  into  conversation. 

"  Your  words  in  the  .House,  Duke,  have  en- 
couraged all  England." 

The  Duke  laughed.  "  You  pay  me  a  bad  com- 
pliment, my  young  friend.  If  I  encouraged  the 
Jacobins  I  must  have  expressed  myself  very  ill, 
for  example." 

"  A  faction,"  said  Charles,  "  a  faction,  sir." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  the  Duke.  "  It 's  about 
half  the  country." 

'  The  country  will  follow  your  Grace." 

"  H'm,"  said  the  Duke,  "  I  don't  believe  it. 
The  House  of  Commons  won't  follow  me,  I  doubt. 
But  I  shall  have  Despard  out  in  a  month  and  then 
we  '11  see."  Sir  James  Despard  led  the  Commons 
—  a  Whig.  He  dismissed  the  subject  and  turned 
to  Georgiana.  "  Keep  out  of  politics,  my  dear. 
It 's  no  job  for  a  pretty  woman." 

"Mayn't  I  help?"  she  asked,  half  begging. 
She  was  elated  by  his  evident  kindness  to  her.  At 
the  moment  she  really  thought  herself  a  Tory, 
and  burned  to  fight  under  his  flag. 

'  Why,  of  course  you  may  —  and  the  more  the 
merrier.  But  don't  dirty  your  fingers.  Leave 
all  that  to  our  friend  here,  and  the  likes  of  me." 

Mrs.  Mayduke  swam  up,  breasting  the  air  like 
a  duck  the  pond.  "  Duke,  I  must  take  you  away. 


78  MRS.  LANCELOT 

The  Russian  Ambassador  is  here  and  I  don't 
know  what  in  the  world  to  do  with  him.  He 
asked  me  for  you  the  moment  he  came." 

The  Duke  nodded.  "  I  '11  deal  with  him. 
Come  along,  Mary.  Have  at  him."  He  gave 
Georgiana  his  two  fingers.  "  Good-by,  my  dear. 
Keep  out  of  politics.  Good  night,  Lancelot." 
He  turned  and  followed  his  hostess,  who  had 
exchanged  with  Georgiana  a  merry  glance  for  a 
scared  one.  It  may  be  said  of  the  younger  lady 
that  she  had  never  felt  so  young  in  her  life  before. 
And  yet  the  Duke  did  not  give  her  an  impression 
of  age.  He  had  white  hair,  it 's  true,  and  not 
very  much  of  that,  but  a  young  man's  confidence, 
and  a  young  man's  bright  eye.  She  thought  of 
him  as  essential  man,  neither  old  nor  young,  but 
as  that  to  which  all  youth  tends,  as  that  from 
which  age  declines.  He  was  the  zenith,  but  for 
all  she  could  believe  of  him  by  hearsay  or  fancy 
had  never  been  more,  and  could  not  conceivably 
be  less. 

Jogging  home  together  in  their  hired  coach  she 
and  Charles  were  very  silent;  but  her  hand  very 
simply  sought  for  his,  found  and  held  it. 

Charles,  however,  was  unresponsive,  consumed 
by  his  dreams.  To  timid  pressure  accorded  from 
time  to  time  as  her  excited  mind  moved  her  to 
expression,  he  returned  none. 


THE  EYE  CAPTURED  79 

A  week  or  so  later  she  and  the  Duke  met  again. 
This  was  at  Lady  Ogmore's  breakfast  —  a  Ve- 
netian dejeuner  it  was  called ;  and  if  masks  make  a 
Venice,  it  was  most  Venetian.  Lady  Ogmore,  the 
dowager,  had  a  house  overlooking  the  Green  Park 
and  gave  great  entertainments.  She  was  the  most 
fashionable  person  on  Georgiana's  visiting-list, 
and  this  particular  party  was  very  fashionable  in- 
deed. There  were  two  Royal  princes,  and  at 
least  three  great  ladies  who  ought  to  have  been 
nowhere,  as  somebody  said,  but  in  Bridewell. 
There  were  wits  and  dandies,  poets  and  reviewers, 
as  well  as  peers  and  politicians.  Lady  Ogmore, 
who  aspired  to  be  to  the  Tory  party  what  Lady 
Holland  was  to  the  Whigs,  went  equally  far  afield 
and  with  equally  Catholic  taste  herded  lampooner 
and  lampooned  in  one  pinfold.  Everybody  was 
masked,  and  when  the  revels  had  reached  their 
height  all  masks  were  taken  off,  to  the  confusion 
of  some  and  the  entertainment  of  the  unconfused. 

Georgiana,  still  very  shy  in  a  large  company, 
clung  to  her  husband's  arm  as  long  as  she  could. 
At  the  breakfast  itself  she  sat  between  two  strange 
gentlemen,  one  a  great  rattler,  who  made  her 
laugh,  the  other  a  caustic  commentator  on  the  fol- 
lies in  which  he  himself  did  not  scruple  to  share. 
In  after  days,  remembering  this  feast,  she  was 
astonished  at  herself  —  not  at  what  she  remem- 
bered herself  to  have  been,  but  at  what  she  was 


80  MRS.  LANCELOT 

then  become,  remembering  it.  She  saw  herself 
at  the  board,  slim  and  pretty,  and  shy,  in  her  pink 
tunic  with  its  gold  fringe  and  clinging  skirt,  with 
her  hair  twisted  high  in  a  Greek  knot,  to  show 
the  nape  of  her  neck  and  finely  shaped  head. 
While  she  remembered,  she  knew  herself  still  to 
be  slim  and  very  pretty  (so  much  her  modesty  al- 
lowed herself,  though  her  lovers  called  her  lovely, 
and  the  newspapers  wrote  of  "  the  beautiful  Mrs. 
L 1");  but  whence  had  she  got  her  self- 
possession?  Whence  that  quality  which  made 
her  attention  so  extraordinarily  worth  having, 
which  made  her,  it  was  said,  the  best  listener  in 
England?  Certainly  she  had  it  not,  as  she  re- 
membered herself,  at  Ogmore  House.  Silence 
fell  between  her  and  the  dandy,  silence  presently 
between  her  and  the  wit;  and  what  covered  her 
(as  she  afterwards  blushed  to  remember)  with 
confusion  and  despair  was  that  these  two  eminent 
tongues  presently  interchanged  sallies  across  her 
little  tongue-tied  person. 

Isolation  was  thus  branded  upon  her:  she  felt 
like  a  pariah-dog;  and  afterwards,  when  they  were 
all  out  on  the  terrace,  and  the  fun  was  faster,  she 
was  standing  alone,  rather  rueful,  and  there  came 
along  Lady  Adela  Sparkless,  a  raddled  lady, 
rather  mad,  with  nodding  plumes  above  a  bleached 
head.  "Ah,  how  d'ye  do?  Pleasant  party!" 
she  shrilled,  and  passed  on,  jerking  her  head  like 


THE  EYE  CAPTURED  81 

some  foolish  bird.  Georgiana  had  advanced  her 
hand,  but  Lady  Adela  in  her  flutter  had  passed  it 
by.  The  poor  girl  felt  deeply  humiliated  —  and 
just  then  she  saw  the  Duke  come  out  of  the  long 
window.  He  had  not  breakfasted,  was  not 
masked,  and  was  alone.  Among  the  few  un- 
masked were  this  great  man  and  Charles  Lancelot, 
an  unelastic  person,  not  lending  himself  readily  to 
disguises,  distrusting  them.  She  watched  him  now 
as  a  refuge  for  her  depressed  thoughts;  she  saw 
him  look  about  from  woman  to  woman,  a  longer 
or  shorter  scrutiny  as  some  turn  of  the  head  or 
contour  of  the  figure  took  his  attention.  She  saw 
him  nod  curtly  to  Charles,  at  hand,  felt  then  his 
eye  upon  herself,  and  saw  him,  to  her  confusion, 
come  straight  towards  her.  She  stood  rooted, 
felt  herself  tingle  all  over,  felt  her  heart  beat,  but 
watched,  unable  to  move,  fascinated  to  the  spot. 
She  was  masked  still;  but  he  came  directly  to  her, 
held  out  his  two  fingers  and  said,  "  Good  morn- 
ing, young  lady.  What,  are  they  about  to  leave 
you  alone  ?  "  He  seemed  as  able  to  read  thoughts 
as  to  pierce  masks. 

"  I  'm  a  nobody,"  said  Georgiana. 

"  Everybody  is  something  to  somebody,"  he 
said,  and  she  felt  the  shaft  of  his  keen  eyes. 
They  were,  she  found,  of  an  intensely  bright  blue, 
the  color  of  turquoise  but  with  the  transparency 
of  the  sapphire  added.  Her  own  eyes  were  called 


82  MRS.  LANCELOT 

blue,  but  were  really  gray  in  the  iris,  gray  shot 
with  light  and  ringed  with  black.  What  ought  to 
have  been  white  in  her  eyes  was  blue.  This  was 
all  of  her  that  he  could  now  see,  except  her  beau- 
tiful chin. 

"  Everybody  is  something  to  somebody,"  he 
repeated,  and  then  added,  twinkling,  "  So  now 
you  know,  young  lady." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  she  told  him,  and  con- 
fessed to  having  felt  stranded. 

"  Poooh!  "  he  laughed  at  her,  "  that 's  nothing 
to  what  I  can  do.  You  shall  feel  as  floated  as 
you  please."  He  added,  "  I  knew  you  at  once." 

She  was  really  curious.  "  How  did  you  know 
me  ?  "  she  wanted  to  know. 

He  considered  her  calmly,  most  appreciatively, 
as  he  answered,  "  I  can't  be  taken  in  by  masks. 
They  only  hide  the  insignificant  parts,  the  mouth, 
the  nose.  A  woman  may  have  these  any  shape 
and  size  you  please,  within  reason.  What  you 
know  her  by  are  the  eyes,  the  shape  of  the  head, 
the  way  it  is  put  on,  and  the  figure.  Most  of  all, 
I  believe,  by  the  shape  of  the  head  and  the  way  it 
is  put  on  the  neck.  That 's  how  I  knew  you. 
You  have  a  long  neck,  and  a  very  pretty  one. 
Your  head 's  put  on  in  the  right  way ;  it 's  in 
the  right  place,  and  I  'm  sure  that  your  heart  is. 
And  I  like  —"  He  did  n't  add  what  he  liked,  but 


THE  EYE  CAPTURED  83 

he  looked  it.  Georgiana  felt  that  she  ought  to 
have  worn  a  domino. 

He  began  to  talk  to  her  about  her  affairs ;  asked 
of  her  people,  of  her  marriage,  of  Charles.  Her 
marriage  was  dwelt  upon:  he  asked  questions 
about  it  —  how  many  bridesmaids,  how  long  a 
honeymoon,  where  spent,  and  so  on.  He  did  not 
seem  interested  in  Charles,  but  owned  that  he  was 
diligent  and  might  be  useful. 

"  He  ought  to  think  himself  lucky,"  he  said, 
"  to  have  won  your  hand."  She  noticed  two 
things  about  this  grandee  —  first  that  he  was  fond 
of  saying  things  to  which  it  was  impossible  to 
reply;  second,  that  he  didn't  seem  to  want  any 
reply.  At  the  same  time  he  said  them  in  such 
a  way  that  they  seemed  natural.  There  was  no 
sense  of  paying  compliments  about  them.  If  he 
was  gallant  it  was  in  a  way  of  his  own. 

So  on  he  went,  and  led  her  on  to  talk.  She 
found  herself  opening  out,  and  in  time  discussing 
matters  of  which  he  knew  everything  and  she 
little  or  nothing.  But  he  listened,  he  considered 
her  arguments,  met  them.  He  paid  her  there  the 
greatest  compliment  a  man  of  many  affairs  can 
pay  to  a  woman  of  none;  he  took  her  simply  and 
seriously.  Why  he  did  so  was  principally  because 
he  was  a  man  entirely  without  pretense  —  him- 
self, for  all  his  power  and  ability,  quite  simple  and 


84  MRS.  LANCELOT 

serious.  Bores  put  him  to  flight,  fops  made  him 
savage,  witlings  murderous.  He  was  able  to  kill 
with  a  snub.  With  Georgiana  he  was  perfectly 
charming;  and  he  was  charming  because  she 
charmed  him.  She  had  charmed  him  from  the 
moment  he  saw  her.  He  called  her  to  himself  a 
little  slim  fairy,  a  little  sylph;  and  to  him  she 
was  to  be  that  (though  he  gave  no  thought  to 
the  morrow  —  less  than  she)  for  the  rest  of  his 
life. 

He  was  with  her  for  the  better  part  of  an  hour, 
and  then  the  hoverers  —  whom  he  had  had  the 
power  of  keeping  at  a  distance  by  a  mere  aversion 
of  the  head  —  took  heart  of  grace  from  a  study 
of  his  looks  and  closed  in  upon  him.  But  before 
that  happened  Georgiana  had  unmasked,  and  he 
was  able  to  reassure  himself  that  her  mouth  and 
nose  were  by  no  means  unreasonable.  The  nose 
was  straight  and  fine,  the  mouth  that  of  an  ador- 
able child.  Her  round  face  enchanted  him;  but 
he  had  often  been  enchanted,  and  neither  lost  his 
head  nor  turned  hers  in  the  search  for  it.  In  the 
face  of  the  company  he  bowed  over  her  hand  and 
touched  it  with  his  lips. 

"  Good-by,  my  dear.  I  'm  glad  that  we  're 
friends."  And  then  she  fluttered  away  and 
sought  her  brooding  Charles. 

"  Let  us  go,  Charles,  please.  I  ought  to  be  at 
home." 


THE  EYE  CAPTURED  85 

"  My  dear,  I  have  been  waiting  for  you.     You 
saw  the  Duke?  " 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes.     I  must  tell  you." 


IX 

CHARLES   ON   WIFELY  DUTY 

SHE  told  him  everything  as  it  occurred,  neither 
concealing  her  elation  nor  enhancing  it.  She 
was  more  surprised  than  gratified;  she  treated  the 
whole  thing  as  if  it  were  a  freak  of  fortune. 
Charles  listened  gravely,  without  letting  one  symp- 
tom of  his  mind  be  seen. 

"  He  was  extraordinarily  kind  to  me,"  she  con- 
cluded, "  and  really  I  was  able  to  talk  to  him 
towards  the  end  as  if  I  had  known  him  all  my  life. 
But  I  shall  never  be  able  to  understand  why  he 
did  it  —  unless  it  was  because  he  is  interested  in 
you.  And  yet,  you  know,  he  said  very  little  about 
you." 

Charles,  severely  wounded  by  this,  did  not  move 
a  muscle  of  his  face;  but  he  inquired  what  the 
Duke  had,  in  fact,  talked  about. 

"  He  seemed  interested  in  me,"  she  told  him, 
"  and  my  opinions.  Politics !  "  She  opened  her 
eyes  wide,  and  laughed.  "  Really,  he  asked  me 
what  I  thought  about  politics.  Of  course,  I  told 
him.  He  is  the  sort  of  man  one  has  to  obey. 
And  he  was  extraordinarily  kind.  He  discussed 

86 


CHARLES  ON  WIFELY  DUTY       87 

them  with  me."  She  did  not  continue  on  this 
line,  but  broke  off  and  chose  another.  "  Charles, 
he  means  to  hold  office.  He  says  that  the  Re- 
formers will  go  out  and  we  come  in  —  but  without 
an  election.  He  will  have  a  majority  against  him 
in  the  Commons,  and  govern  with  the  House  of 
Lords." 

Charles  nodded.  "  Yes,  yes,  I  knew  that. 
Did  he  express  a  wish  —  did  he  hint  that  I  might 
find  a  seat?  " 

"  No,  he  scarcely  spoke  about  you.  He  said 
that  he  knew  that  you  worked  very  hard.  He 
said  that  you  were  a  valuable  —  yes,  that  was  his 
word  —  a  valuable  official.  That  is  a  compli- 
ment, from  him." 

"  He  is  very  kind,"  said  Charles,  who  spoke  for 
once  as  he  felt  —  sourly,  because  he  felt  sourly. 

But  Georgiana  resumed  her  speculations. 

"  He  said  that  he  knew  me  at  once.  But  how 
did  he  do  that?  He  nodded  to  you  first,  because 
I  saw  him  do  it.  I  saw  him  come  in.  And  per- 
haps the  sight  of  you  reminded  him  that  you  were 
married  —  and  —  and  —  but  even  then !  I  was 
masked,  you  know !  " 

"Did  you  not  ask  him  how  he  knew  you?" 
Charles  asked,  and  awaited  the  answer  more  seri- 
ously than  his  question  implied. 

"  No,  I  can't  say  that  I  did,  directly,"  she  re- 
plied. "  I  wondered,  of  course.  I  wondered 


88  MRS.  LANCELOT 

aloud,  I  mean.  He  answered  generally  —  the 
shape  of  my  head,  and  such  things.  He  said  that 
a  mask  only  hid  the  insignificant  parts."  Her 
eyes  fell  —  to  wander  over  her  pretty  person,  and 
perhaps  to  wonder.  Charles  glanced  at  her  unob- 
served. 

"  And  what  did  he  think  the  insignificant 
parts?  "  he  desired  to  know. 

She  laughed,  blushing  a  little.  "  The  nose;  the 
mouth.  He  said  that  the  way  one's  head  was  set 
on  one's  neck  was  the  most  striking  feature  of 
one's  personality."  More  than  that  she  could  not 
tell  him,  or  did  not. 

Charles  was  quiet  for  some  moments.  Pres- 
ently he  said,  looking  carefully  away  from  her, 
"  I  am  very  much  interested  in  what  you  tell  me 
—  naturally.  I  am,  as  you  know,  very  much  con- 
cerned. My  hopes  of  advancement  are  centered 
in  the  Duke  —  and  my  opportunities  of  usefulness 
to  my  country  will  spring,  if  at  all,  from  him. 
His  eye,  it  has  been  freely  said,  is  upon  me.  I 
don't  hesitate  to  tell  you  so;  it  is  right  that  you 
should  know  all.  May  I  not  expect  similar  frank- 
ness from  my  wife?  I  think  so.  It  is  not  too 
much  to  ask." 

He  spoke  constrainedly,  veiling  (as  she 
thought)  reproach.  She  leaned  towards  him. 

"  Dearest,  don't  put  it  like  that,"  she  said. 
''  When  have  I  not  been  open  with  you?  I  beg 


CHARLES  ON  WIFELY  DUTY       89 

you  to  tell  me.  The  mere  thought  of  it  makes 
me  unhappy.  Please  to  tell  me  what  I  have  kept 
from  you." 

He  was  careful  to  frame  his  answer.  Yet  the 
man  was  galled  in  his  pride.  "  Let  me  remind 
you,"  he  said,  "  that  Mrs.  Mayduke  is  acquainted 
with  my  interest  in  the  Duke,  with  my  hopes  from 
him.  Yet  I  have  only  once  before  met  the  Duke 
in  her  house,  until  the  other  night  when  I  pre- 
sented him  to  you.  Am  I  wrong  in  supposing  that 
you  asked  her  to  provide  that  opportunity?  Is 
it  extraordinary  if  I  wish  to  tell  you  that  you  have 
done  me  a  service?  May  I  not  thank  you 
for  it?" 

She  had  stared  round-eyed  —  not  at  him,  but 
away  from  him  —  from  the  moment  that  she 
caught  the  drift  of  this  uncomfortable  speech. 
Unconsciously,  perhaps,  she  was  prepared  for  it, 
not  specifically,  but  by  her  general  knowledge  of 
Charles.  Her  answer  was  not  natural  —  for  her 
nature  was  very  simple.  She  answered  dryly, 
with  a  hard  core  in  her  voice. 

'  You  are  wrong.  I  have  never  spoken  to 
Mrs.  Mayduke  about  your  affairs.  I  don't  think 
that  I  knew  —  certainly  I  did  not  know  from  her 
—  that  the  Duke  was  a  friend  of  hers.  I  had  no 
notion  he  would  be  there  that  night." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  love,"  he  said.  "  I 
beg  your  pardon." 


9o  MRS.  LANCELOT 

Then  she  turned  her  looks  upon  him,  quivering. 
"  And  if  I  had  spoken  to  her  —  if  I  had  asked  her 
to  let  you  meet  him  —  why  should  you  suppose 
that  I  had  done  it?"  Her  indignation  transfig- 
ured her.  She  looked  pale  and  tragic. 

He  was  ashamed  of  himself,  but  could  not 
admit  it.  He  took  up  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  To  serve  me,  my  love.  Pray  don't  think 
harm  of  me."  Her  generosity  flew  to  shield  him. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  "  of  course  I  don't.  But 
you  puzzle  me.  I  do  wish  to  serve  you  —  it  is 
on  my  mind.  But  it  seems  that  if  I  had  served 
you  in  this  you  would  have  been  vexed  with  me." 

"  Never  in  the  world,"  said  Charles  stoutly. 
He  kept  her  hand;  but  no  more  was  said.  She 
dropped  him  at  the  Treasury  and  went  on. 

In  the  evening  they  dined  together  alone,  with 
no  reference  to  the  morning's  entertainment.  She 
told  him  that  Mrs.  Mayduke  had  called  upon  her 
in  the  afternoon.  He  bowed  his  head,  but  said 
nothing  a  propos.  He  was  by  nature  a  deliberate 
man,  with  a  dim  sense  of  the  rhetorical  art.  He 
had  serious  things  to  say  to  her  by  and  by  —  but 
there  must  be  due  preparation  —  an  attuned  audi- 
ence, suspense,  then  opening  music  —  and  then 
the  actor  upon  the  scene. 

Mrs.  Mayduke,  it  may  well  be,  had  forestalled 
him  in  the  setting  of  his  stage.  She  had  certainly 
ensured  suspense  in  his  auditory,  if  not  played  the 


CHARLES  ON  WIFELY  DUTY       91 

overture.  She  had  swum  into  the  little  drawing- 
room  unannounced,  had  taken  Georgiana  by  the 
chin  and  kissed  her  roguishly. 

"  My  dear !  "  she  had  cried  in  her  fat  and  know- 
ing tones.  "I  congratulate  you.  A  conquest! 
I  saw  it  all.  Never  was  anything  so  marked. 
He  came  on  to  the  terrace,  and  went  directly  to 
you.  Now,  what  had  you  done?  Nothing,  I  am 
positive.  Your  mask  was  absolutely  identical 
with  mine.  Besides  —  oh,  preposterous!  No, 
you  dear  little  thing.  He  knew  you  by  instinct. 
That  is  it  —  instinct.  His  eye,  you  know !  His 
eye  is  proverbial.  Through  a  haystack!  What 
is  a  mask  to  him  ?  Well,  well,  well  —  and  who  's 
to  say  he  's  wrong?  Not  I,  indeed.  Infatuated, 
they  say!  Believe  me,  I  tell  them,  Monthermer 
knows  what  he  's  about.  No  one  better.  I  still 
call  him  Monthermer,  you  know.  So  old  a 
friend.  He  's  Monty  still  —  to  his  real  intimates. 
My  dearest  child,  you  bewitched  him!  " 

All  this  with  Georgiana's  chin  in  her  fat  and 
friendly  fingers. 

But  Georgiana  withdrew  herself  as  soon  as  she 
could.  She  did  her  best  to  laugh  her  friend  off, 
feeling  that  indignation  was  misplaced. 

"  He  was  extremely  kind.  Of  course  I  was 
proud.  He  may  be  very  useful  to  Charles  —  and 
I  have  to  think  of  that." 

Mrs.   Mayduke   raised  her  hands.     "  Useful, 


92  MRS.  LANCELOT 

my  dear!  Charles's  fortune  is  made.  He  will 
go  further,  let  me  tell  you,  than  he  can  ever  have 
expected;  though,  to  be  sure,  Charles  has  always 
believed  in  his  own  star.  So  much  so  that  I  re- 
member, when  I  offered  to  say  a  word  for  him 
to  the  Duke  —  Monthermer,  as  he  was  then  —  he 
refused  me  point-blank.  Point-blank,  my  dear! 
And  when  I  think  " —  here  she  clapped  her  hands 
— "  that  it  was  in  my  drawing-room  you  first  met ! 
I  declare  that  I  could  go  down  on  my  knees.  My 
dear,  I  must  positively  kiss  you  again."  Which 
she  did. 

They  sat  together  for  intimate  talk.  Mrs. 
Mayduke  expounded  the  Duke. 

"  I  Ve  known  him  for  years.  He  was  a  friend 
of  poor  dear  papa's.  They  were  at  school  to- 
gether —  at  Eton,  you  know.  Then  he  went  out 
to  India,  having  married  that  most  uncomfortable 
woman,  Eleanor  Wishart;  and  papa  died;  and 
then  I  married.  When  he  came  back,  a  famous 
man  and  a  hero,  almost  the  first  person  he  came 
to  see  was  myself.  And  it  has  always  been  so, 
whatever  he  has  been  at  —  government,  politics, 
diplomacy  —  he  has  remained  on  the  same  footing 
with  me  —  a  dear,  valued  friend.  But,  mind  you, 
nothing  more.  No,  no.  We  know  each  other 
too  well.  I  'm  far  from  saying  he  's  perfect.  As 
a  husband,  I  know  that  he  has  been  tried;  but 
there  's  much  to  be  said  for  her.  My  dear,  he  is 


CHARLES  ON  WIFELY  DUTY      93 

very  fond  of  our  society  —  he  likes  women. 
That  must  be  confessed.  He  likes  all  kinds  of 
women  —  everybody  knows  it,  and  he  admits  it 
himself.  You  Ve  no  idea  how  frank  he  can  be 
—  oh,  horrid !  But  a  good  woman  —  well, 
there  's  no  saying  what  effect  a  good  woman  might 
not  have  upon  him.  His  guardian  angel !  An- 
gels, we  know,  have  no  sex,  poor  creatures.  They 
would  be,  as  such,  entirely  useless  in  a  case  of  the 
sort.  Monthermer  —  I  mean,  of  course,  the 
Duke  —  despises  men,  though  he  uses  them.  He 
adores  women,  and  they  may  use  him,  I  believe  — 
within  reason.  I  know  what  a  friend  he  has  been 
to  my  Jack,  and  can  guess  what  he  might  do  for 
one  whom  he  admired  as  well  as  respected  — 
which,  mind  you,  has  never  been  the  case  with  me. 
No,  no." 

Georgiana  here,  who  had  so  far  listened  with 
murmurs,  and  her  eyes  intent  upon  her  fingers 
twisting  in  her  lap,  interpolated  a  remark.  She 
said,  "  I  don't  quite  understand  you.  I  am  sure 
the  Duke  admires  as  well  as  respects  you."  Mrs. 
Mayduke  tossed  her  head. 

"  My  dear,  I  'm  nearly  his  own  age.  He  is 
very  fond  of  me.  But  admiration  —  no  indeed! 
There  has  never  been  anything  of  the  kind.  And 
I  am  not  at  all  the  sort  of  woman  he  notices  —  in 
that  way."  She  observed  her  friend's  eyes,  saw 
the  iris  spread,  the  pupils  contract,  and  put  up  a 


94  MRS.  LANCELOT 

fat  hand.  "  Now,  Georgiana,  don't  play  the 
prude.  There  's  absolutely  no  occasion  —  and 
too  much  depends  upon  you.  Think  of  our  dear 
Charles.  He  must  needs  admire  you  extremely. 
His  eye  is  astonishing  —  never  at  fault!  And 
with  his  experience.  Well,  well  1  "  She  did  not 
attempt  to  do  justice  to  his  experience,  and  per- 
haps thereby  did  all  the  better. 

"  The  last  person  of  our  sort,"  she  presently 
resumed,  "who  had  any  kind  of  effect  —  what 
one  might  call  influence  —  upon  him  was  a  Miss 
Marischal.  I  don't  know  whether  you  ever  met 
her;  Flora  Marischal,  who  married  young  Lord 
Bentingthorpe  —  a  very  cold  beauty,  tall,  a  full 
figure :  your  antithesis,  my  dear.  He  was  prod- 
igal to  her  family  —  oh,  prodigal !  Two  commis- 
sions in  the  cavalry,  and  something  for  one  of  the 
others  —  something  colonial,  but  extremely  satis- 
factory. All  the  duties  done  by  a  deputy,  who 
lived  there,  and  had  quite  a  small  salary  ^ —  a  mere 
stipend.  We  used  to  call  him  the  Curate,  I  re- 
member. The  climate  killed  him,  of  course;  but 
they  got  another  for  the  same  money.  But  that 
was  ages  ago.  Since  her  time  —  well,  he  has 
never  been  strongly  attracted  to  any  one.  And 
God  knows  —  God  alone  knows  —  what  a  com- 
fort you  may  not  be  to  him,  my  dear  and  noble 
friend.  Georgie,  a  lonely  life!  My  dear,  you 
may  be  his  Egeria  —  who  knows  ?  .  .  .  My 


CHARLES  ON  WIFELY  DUTY       95 

dear,"  she  was  at  a  loss  — "  there  's  no  saying  what 
may  not  happen  after  this  morning.  I  shall 
strongly  advise  Charles  to  look  out  for  a  borough. 
I  hope  you  '11  do  the  same." 

There  was  much  more  of  the  sort  —  Mrs. 
Mayduke  was  past  mistress  of  nods  and  winks;  but 
finally  she  kissed  herself  away,  and  left  Georgiana 
pensive  and  perturbed,  with  glowing  cheeks  and 
bright  eyes,  alone  with  her  thoughts. 

They  were  insurgent,  her  thoughts.  No 
woman,  still  less  a  young  woman,  least  of  all  a 
young  woman  who  begins  to  suspect  herself  of 
charm,  can  be  offended  to  know  of  a  man's  admira- 
tion. Her  husband's  is  taken  for  granted,  or  her 
lover's;  but  a  stranger  comes  in  with  the  added 
force  of  his  strangeness ;  and  when  the  postulant  is 
a  great  man,  the  greatest  man  in  England,  a  hero, 
the  triumph  is  manifest,  and  the  elation  swal- 
lows up  everything  but  the  responsibility.  And 
Georgiana,  who  was  very  simple,  had  no  suspi- 
cions whatever.  The  Duke's  simplicity  was  as 
plain  to  her,  as  hers  to  him,  and  as  reassuring  as 
he  found  hers  charming.  This  hero,  then,  could 
detect  her  under  disguise.  Her  person  pleased 
him ;  he  sought  her,  found  her  at  once.  It 's  a 
testimony  to  her  perfect  honesty  that  her  first 
proud  thought  had  been,  "  I  can  tell  Charles  that 
he  thinks  me  pretty!"  She  could  enhance  her- 
self, you  see,  in  her  Charles's  eyes,  and  perhaps 


96  MRS.  LANCELOT 

provoke  from  her  Charles  a  similar  admission  on 
his  part.  For  Charles  had  never  once  told  her 
that  she  was  a  pretty  woman.  That  was  not  his 
way.  He  had  assumed  that  among  his  many 
assumptions.  She  herself  had  supposed  herself 
personable  —  but  not  pretty.  It  was  only  lately 
that  she  had  begun  to  wonder.  She  had  loved 
good  clothes;  but  her  delight  had  been  in  them, 
and  not  in  herself  as  they  displayed  her.  She 
had  no  vanity  at  all;  but  certainly  she  was 
pleased. 

Then  her  responsibility;  for  that  came  washing 
up  like  a  seventh  wave  to  engulf  her  gratification. 
It  sobered  her  excitement  also.  How  far  could 
she  serve  Charles  ?  Surely,  very  far  —  for  she 
believed  in  Charles.  Within  the  gentle  curve  of 
her  bosom  she  nested  this  thought :  that  she  would 
mother  her  husband's  future,  and  glean  what  she 
could  from  this  fair  new  prospect  of  hers. 

Last  came  —  most  sobering  thought  of  all  — 
her  responsibility  to  him  —  to  the  hero  —  to  this 
puissant  prince  who  had  discerned  her  fair  and 
singled  her  out  among  the  many  fairer.  Was  it 
possible  that  she  could  be  —  what?  "A  com- 
fort," said  Mrs.  Mayduke,  and  —  Egeria  !  She, 
Georgiana  Strangways,  nobody,  a  shred,  a  flutter- 
ing scarf,  to  shelter  England's  greatest!  Her 
eyes  were  starry,  her  color  was  high.  She  pressed 
her  hand  to  her  bosom,  over  her  heart.  Was  it 


CHARLES  ON  WIFELY  DUTY      97 

possible  she  could  help  him?  Comfort  him? 
Soothe  him  in  his  troubles?  Oh,  but  woman 
should  thank  God  for  such  glory  vouchsafed. 
And  that  Georgiana  very  simply  did. 

She  was  restless  until  dinner  time,  but  extremely 
happy.  She  caught  herself  looking  at  herself, 
smiling  a  little  askance;  she  remarked  the  bright- 
ness of  her  eyes,  the  heightening  of  her  color. 
Clearly  color  became  her  —  clearly  her  looks  were 
bettering.  Pink  must  become  her,  since  she  had 
been  in  pink  that  morning  and  he  had  remarked 
her  at  once.  But  to-night  she  would  wear  white, 
and  perhaps  her  color  —  Would  Charles  notice 
that  her  color  was  improved?  Probably  not. 
Poor  dear  Charles !  and  now  she  could  really  help 
him. 

Charles  did  not  notice  either  her  gown  or  her 
heightened  charms;  but  he  did  observe  that  she 
was  vivacious.  At  the  end  of  dinner,  coming  to 
her  in  her  drawing-room,  he  sat  by  her,  and  took 
her  hand. 

"  My  Georgiana  is  happy,"  he  said.  "  Her 
party  pleased  her?  "  She  thrilled  to  his  kindness, 
and  snuggled  her  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course  it  pleased  me.  They  were 
—  he  was  —  so  kind.  It  was  extraordinary!  " 

u  It  was  indeed  extraordinary,"  said  Charles, 
with  the  blunt  privilege  of  a  husband  —  and  she 


98  MRS.  LANCELOT 

noticed  that  with  a  little  smile.  "  Everybody  re- 
marked it." 

"  Did  you  like  my  gown?  "  she  asked  him  with 
inconsequence,  which  startled  him. 

"  It  was  very  becoming.  Pink  always  suits 
you."  She  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  not  truly.  I  am  too  pale  for  that  color." 
So,  artlessly  she  drew  him  on.  He  bent  towards 
her. 

"  My  love,  your  color  is  high  to-night.  My 
bride  is  happy."  Then  she  put  her  face  up  to 
him,  looking  happy  indeed.  He  stooped  and 
kissed  her;  and  while  she  leaned  to  him,  her  head 
on  his  shoulder,  she  whispered  to  him,  with  gleam- 
ing eyes  of  pride  in  her  success, 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  Mrs.  Mayduke  said  to 
me  this  afternoon?" 

"  Tell  me,  my  own,  pray." 

She  must  needs  tell  him  now,  but  she  could  not 
look  at  him  as  she  told.  She  watched  her  hand 
which  his  still  held. 

"She  said  that  he  —  the  Duke  —  was  very 
much  interested  —  that  it  was  plain  he  really  liked 
me.  She  told  me  that  I  might  have  a  great  influ- 
ence—  that  I  might  help  him.  I  could  hardly 
believe  it." 

Insensibly  Charles,  as  he  heard  her,  relaxed  his 
embrace.  You  could  hardly  have  noticed  any- 
thing. Put  it  that  where  he  had  held  her  before, 


CHARLES  ON  WIFELY  DUTY       99 

now  it  was  within  her  power  to  uplift  herself  from 
his  shoulder.  His  arm  was  about  her,  but  not  to 
hold  her.  His  hand  held  hers,  but  not  to  retain 
it.  The  suggestion,  Mrs.  Mayduke's,  his  old 
friend's  suggestion  swept  over  his  self-esteem  with 
a  slight  chill  —  just  to  ruffle  the  surface.  That 
his  wife,  his  chosen  ally,  his  mate,  should  be  an 
ally  of  somebody  else,  should  help  somebody  else 
—  and  should  be  happy  in  the  thought  —  happier, 
mind  you,  or  first  of  all  happy,  in  the  thought  of 
such  helpfulness;  well,  that  ruffled  his  self-esteem: 
that  made  goose-flesh.  Must  it  always  be  so? 
Could  no  woman  be  found  to  give  whole-hearted 
loyalty  to  a  man?  Was  his  case,  then,  no  better 
than  any  other  man's?  He  sighed,  but  she  did 
not  hear  him,  occupied  with  her  thoughts  and  won- 
dering. 

"  It  would  be  gratifying  to  believe  Mrs.  May- 
duke,"  he  said  —  and  did  she  notice  the  change 
of  tone?  "  Of  course  one  knows  the  Duke.  He 
is  partial  to  ladies'  society.  Naturally  he  has 
never  failed  of  it." 

Georgiana  was  now  sitting  up  in  her  seat,  and 
upon  the  clasp  of  her  hand  which  he  still  main- 
tained there  was  a  slight  strain.  He  continued: 

"  I  should  like,  if  you  would  allow  me,  to  say 
one  thing  to  you,  my  love.  After  this  morning 
you  will  probably  receive  a  good  deal  of  attention 
from  the  world,  which  so  far  has  paid  you  but 


ioo  MRS.  LANCELOT 

little.  We  shall  be  asked  out  to  meet  the  Duke. 
I  fancy  that  so  much  may  be  predicted.  I  need 
not  tell  my  Georgiana  how  important  that  may  be 
to  our  fortunes,  nor  what  part  she  may  bear  in 
them.  A  word  from  the  Duke !  based  upon  what 
he  knows  of  my  capacity  and  fitness  for  duty  — 
his  eye,  we  have  been  told,  is  upon  my  work.  But 
I  need  say  no  more  upon  that  head."  Georgiana, 
slightly  chilled,  assured  him  by  a  murmur  that  he 
need  not.  He  hastened  on. 

"  The  Duke's  remarkable  directness  of  state- 
ment may  perhaps  disconcert  you;  his  keenness  of 
observation  need  not.  You  have  nothing  to  fear 
from  his  scrutiny.  But  let  me  warn  my  dearest 
wife  of  one  thing.  He  has  mixed  in  many  socie- 
ties and  tasted  of  every  experience  which  they  have 
to  offer.  Many  of  these,  perhaps  most  of  these, 
will  not  appeal  to  you.  Neglect  them  —  even 
ignore  them." 

Georgiana  opened  her  eyes.  She  was  capable 
at  times  of  a  dry  comment.  "  Do  you  think  that 
the  Duke  is  likely  to  put  them  before  me?  "  she 
asked,  and  Charles  was  confused. 

"  He  is  curiously  blunt.  Much  of  his  success 
in  diplomacy  may  be  traced  to  that.  I  need  not 
add  that  I  shall  always  be  by  your  side  in  case  you 
are  puzzled — " 

Georgiana  observed  his  perturbation,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  with  him  criticised  her 


CHARLES  ON  WIFELY  DUTY     101 

husband.  She  seemed  to  find  him  both  hot  and 
cold.  He  was  eager  for  her  to  improve  this  new 
friendship,  and  reluctant.  He  was  making  a  fuss 
about  nothing,  and  not  making  a  fuss  about  some- 
thing. They  were  at  cross-purposes. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  rather  I  saw  very  little  of 
him,"  she  said,  but  not  as  if  she  expected  him  to 
agree.  Really,  she  said  it  to  draw  his  protesta- 
tions ;  and  she  failed.  He  sat  for  some  time  with- 
out answering,  and  she  felt  that  his  eyes  were 
upon  her.  He  neither  agreed  with  nor  disclaimed 
the  suggestion.  She  was  conscious  of  tension, 
withdrew  her  hand  from  his,  folded  it  within  her 
other,  and  waited. 

The  longer  Charles  delayed  his  answer,  'the 
more  difficult  he  seemed  to  find  it.  Then  habit 
asserted  itself.  When  it  came  it  was  cold  and 
measured. 

"  I  cannot  think  that  you,  of  all  women,  would 
disregard  the  interests  of  your  husband  —  which 
are  indeed  your  own.  The  Duke's  friendship, 
countenance,  patronage  —  why  should  I  not  say 
it?  —  would  be  of  the  utmost  value.  I  might  say 
that  you  would  confer  a  great  benefit  upon  me :  I 
prefer  to  put  it  that  it  will  be  a  mutual  benefit.  I 
believe  that,  given  the  opportunity,  I  can  serve  the 
Duke  —  if  I  did  not,  I  would  not  ask  you  to  stir 
a  finger  to  help  me." 

He  took  up  his  book,  with  meaning,  and  set- 


102  MRS.  LANCELOT 

tied  himself  down  by  the  lamp.     He  usually  read 
late. 

Georgiana  sat  thoughtful  for  a  while,  shading 
her  eyes  with  her  thin  hand.  Then  presently  she 
got  up,  kissed  her  husband  lightly  on  the  forehead 
and  went  upstairs.  As  she  left  the  drawing-room, 
her  hand  on  the  door,  she  looked  back.  He  was 
reading,  did  not  raise  his  eyes.  She  sighed,  and 
went  her  way.  He  had  robbed  her  day  of  some 
of  its  glory;  but  much  remained.  If  she  thought, 
undressing,  of  Mrs.  Mayduke's  words  rather  than 
of  his,  it  is  no  wonder.  But  she  did  consider 
whether  cards  and  invitations  would  follow,  as  he 
had  predicted. 


X 

THE   DUKE    OF  DEVIZES 

MY  grandfather,  who  died  at  eighty-five 
when  I  was  sixteen,  used  to  talk  of  "  The 
Marquis  "  and  "  The  Duke  "  of  his  youth  as  if 
they  were  two  persons,  whereas  they  were  of 
course  but  one.  "  Ah,  my  boy,"  he  would  say  to 
me,  rubbing  his  cheery  old  hands  together,  "  the 
Marquis  was  what  we  used  to  call  a  Corinthian  in 
those  days  —  a  patron  of  the  Fancy  and  a  great 
hand  at  the  cocks.  I  remember  him  on  Crawley 
Down  —  sad  days,  bad  days,  my  boy,  happily  over 
and  forgotten.  But  the  Marquis  was  a  gentle- 
man, and  the  greatest  gentleman  in  England  — 
not  a  doubt  about  that."  He  alluded  to  Lord 
Thomas  Wake,  you  must  know,  who,  himself  the 
son  of  a  Marquis,  was  himself  made  a  Marquis 
for  services  of  an  indispensable  kind,  by  the  title 
of  Monthermer;  and  finally,  when  he  had  returned 
in  triumph  from  Cracow  and  was  about  to  form 
his  famous  Cabinet  to  quash  the  Reformers,  Duke 
of  Devizes  and  a  Knight  of  the  Garter.  Under 
this  proud  name  and  degree  he  fought  more  than 
one  political  Thermopylae,  was  beaten,  but  sur- 

103 


104  MRS.  LANCELOT 

vived,  to  be  for  twenty  years  more  the  greatest  man 
(not  gentleman  alone)  in  England;  and  as  such  my 
grandfather  would  speak  of  him  in  another  of  his 
wandering  moods.  "  The  Duke,  my  boy?  Aye, 
aye,  I  knew  the  Duke.  I  on  my  white  cob  riding 
to  the  office,  and  he  on  his  white  barb  between 
Wake  House  and  Downing  Street  —  we  passed 
each  other  every  morning  of  our  lives  for  nigh 
upon  twenty  years.  He  came  to  know  me  by 
sight,  the  greatest  man  in  all  England  as  he  was. 
By  and  by  he  'd  look  for  me,  and  see  me  coming. 
He  wore  no  glasses,  mind  you.  And  needed 
none.  And  stiff  he  was  like  a  ramrod,  sir,  and 
high  in  the  head  —  and  saluted  me,  sir,  as  if  I 
were  his  equal.  For  I  always  capped  him,  as  we 
all  did.  Then  one  spring  morning  when  the  lilac 
was  in  flower,  and  the  may,  he  reined  up  after 
his  salute,  and  waited  for  me,  looking  at  me  with 
his  eyes  twinkling.  '  You  're  a  punctual  man, 
sir; '  he  said  to  me,  *  you  're  as  sharp  to  time  as 
I  am,'  said  he.  '  And  I  dare  say,  you  are  none 
the  worse  for  that.'  I  told  him  that  I  got  my 
clerks  hard  at  it  by  half-past  eight  in  the  morning. 
'  And  so  do  I,  by  God,'  he  said;  '  and  they  don't 
like  it,  you  know  —  and  they  don't  like  me  either. 
They  call  me  old  Ironguts,'  he  said;  *  and  what  do 
you  suppose  they  call  you  ?  '  I  told  him  my  name 
and  that  I  had  every  reason  to  believe  that  they 
called  me  by  it.  And  he  kept  his  keen  eyes  on  me 


THE  DUKE  OF  DEVIZES          105 

all  the  time  I  was  speaking  and  after  I  had  said  my 
say,  and  presently  he  says,  *  Do  you  believe  that, 
sir?  Then,  by  God,  you  're  a  better  man  than 
I  am;  but  you  shall  shake  hands  with  me  if  you 
will.'  And  I  shook  hands  with  the  Duke,  my 
boy  —  the  greatest  man  In  all  England;  and  after 
that  day  he  never  passed  me  without  saying, 
*  Good  morning  to  you,  Mr.  Hewlett,'  nor  I  him 
without  my  '  Good  morning,  your  Grace.'  That 
was  a  man,  sir,"  my  grandfather  added,  "  who 
served  three  kings  of  England  and  a  queen,  and 
served  them,  mind  you,  without  bowing  his  head 
too  low.  For  he  was  a  great  gentleman  as  well 
as  a  great  man  —  the  greatest  in  England." 

Thus,  not  once  only  but  oftentimes,  my  grand- 
father who,  like  his  two  heroes,  really  one  and  the 
same  man,  was  of  the  old  school.  How  well  my 
Lord  Marquis  of  Monthermer  fought  his  cocks 
or  backed  his  champion,  how  carefully  my  Lord 
Duke  of  Devizes  may  have  measured  his  obei- 
sances to  the  crowns  he  served,  I  have  my  grand- 
father's word  to  go  by;  but  of  the  cocks  he  set 
a-spurring,  or  the  men,  of  what  other  bows  of  the 
head  he  may  have  made  —  this  man  and  gentle- 
man —  of  how  he  stood  to  his  great,  sparse  world 
or  of  what  he  made  of  the  little,  pullulating,  sweat- 
ing and  groaning  world  below  his  horse-hoofs  — > 
God  may  know,  but  not  my  grandfather. 

God,  who  disposed  this  world  in  a  wonderful 


io6  MRS.  LANCELOT 

order,  may  have  seen  no  harm  in  its  rule-of-thumb 
governance.  Gentlemen  must  dine  at  eight, 
though  the  masses,  unsupped,  are  at  grips  with  the 
soldiery,  though  Peterloo  at  tea-time  swims  in 
blood,  and  Bristol  City  goes  down  in  smoke  to 
ruin  —  gentlemen  must  dine  at  eight  and  go  to 
Lady  Jersey's  ball,  or  be  seen  in  Lady  Oxford's 
box;  and  so  also  must  the  particular  pay  for  the 
general,  and  retail  and  wholesale  balance  accounts. 
Of  this  great,  trim  and  stiff-shouldered  Duke  of 
Devizes  there  is  more  reckoning  to  be  had  than 
can  be  compassed  by  the  phrases  —  he  carried  on 
the  Kingrs  government;  he  was  punctual  at  his 
office;  told  the  truth,  never  paltered  with  himself, 
nor  with  the  Crown,  nor,  "  by  God,"  with  the 
vulgar.  Was  he  a  man,  as  well  as  a  gentlemen? 
Had  he  bowels?  A  heart?  Did  he  love  any- 
thing but  duty?  Did  he  know  what  duty  was? 
Was  he  happy?  Did  he  make  happy  wife  and 
child,  mistress,  maid  and  man?  Did  he  look  upon 
England  as  his  chess-board,  or  Europe  as  his  chess- 
board? Were  yeomen-freeholders  his  pawns, 
churchmen  his  rooks,  the  landed  his  castles  —  and 
who,  to  be  particular  again,  to  be  minute,  who  was 
his  queen?  All  these  things  came  upon  me  one 
day,  and  drove  me  to  inquiry.  This  book  is  my 
report. 

I  find  that  as  Marquis  of  Monthermer,  and  as 


THE  DUKE  OF  DEVIZES          107 

Duke  of  Devizes  and  K.  G.,  he  was  a  gallant  man, 
as  well  as  a  hard  one.  In  a  coarse-pleasured  age 
he  was  most  coarse,  in  an  age  where  success  was 
the  prerogative  of  health  and  high  birth,  he  was 
very  successful.  In  affairs  of  state  he  did  what  he 
intended,  and  if  he  got  no  thanks  for  what  he  did, 
it  is  to  be  remembered  that  he  had  never  looked 
for  them,  and  did  not  require  any.  In  private  life 
he  had  never  known  ill-fortune.  He  was  born  in 
the  purple,  and  so  could  afford  to  take  things  as 
they  came.  And  they  came  purple,  as  you  might 
expect.  Honor,  power,  dominion,  respect,  fear; 
all  these  things,  offered  without  asking  and  taken 
without  effusion.  What  else  he  got  he  got  fairly, 
paying  the  market  price.  He  got  what  he 
wanted,  for  instance,  of  women,  paying  for  it 
freely  (not  always  in  specie),  and  taking  it  as  it 
came;  but  I  do  not  find  that  he  got  much  joy  out 
of  it,  or  that  he  wanted  much  joy.  Let  me  con- 
sider that  closelier.  In  spite  of  himself,  you  may 
say,  love  was  not  unknown  to  this  hard-featured, 
close-grained,  plain-minded  man:  digging  and 
groping,  you  come  to  a  quick  spot  deep  within  his 
nature ;  you  like  to  think  that  you  are  face  to  face 
with  the  infinitesimal  soul  (such  as  it  is)  of 
Thomas  Geoffry  John,  Duke  of  Devizes  and  K.  G. 
It  is  worth  trying,  at  any  rate;  it  is  possible,  after 
all,  that  he  had  a  soul,  and  that  here,  in  the  thin 


io8  MRS.  LANCELOT 

hands  of  a  woman,  it  has  been  casketed  against  the 
tooth  of  time.  Applying  the  usual  tests,  this  is 
my  assay. 

I  explain  his  ascendency  in  the  affairs  of  his 
country  in  this  way.  He  had  no  imagination  and 
no  theory.  Certain  fixed  ideas  he  had,  which  in 
trie  age  when  all  ideas  were  in  violent  flux  and 
commotion  served  him  for  principles.  He  be- 
lieved that  the  sovereign  was  appointed  by  nature 
and  secured  by  law  to  the  possession  of  these 
realms  and  appanages.  He  believed  that  under 
him  the  aristocracy  were  agents  of  his  will  and 
profit.  He  believed  that  every  institution  by 
which,  or  in  spite  of  which,  England  had  become 
great  would  continue  to  keep  England  great.  He 
believed  in  duty,  and  in  absolute  obedience.  If 
the  King  told  him  to  form  a  government,  he  would 
form  one  by  all  possible  means;  and  if  all  possible 
means  failed,  he  would  govern  alone  without  col- 
leagues. And  in  spite  of  failure,  rebuff,  defeat, 
or  ridicule  he  would  continue  to  govern  until  the 
King  told  him  to  stop.  The  people  existed  to  be 
governed,  himself  existed,  under  orders,  to  govern 
them;  and  the  King  reigned.  Now,  with  these 
fixed  ideas,  with  the  army  at  his  back,  the  depart- 
ments under  his  eye,  and  the  King  in  front  of  him, 
the  Duke  of  Devizes  would  have  been  willing 
to  direct  the  whole  affair  of  the  state  from  his  seat 
in  the  House  of  Lords  or  his  standing  desk  at 


THE  DUKE  OF  DEVIZES          109 

Wake  House  —  or,  for  that  matter,  from  the 
bay  window  at  White's.  And  very  well  the  coun- 
try would  have  fared,  no  doubt,  but  for  the  cir- 
cumstance that  the  people  disagreed  with  him. 
The  people  had  just  found  out  that  they  were  not 
there  to  be  governed;  they  had  a  mind  to  govern 
themselves.  They  had  convinced  themselves  of 
that,  they  had  convinced  the  majority  of  their 
rulers;  but  they  never  convinced  the  Duke  of 
Devizes,  whose  shifts,  on  that  account  (since  he 
went  on  governing,  under  orders),  were  occasion- 
ally comic.  Not  to  him  —  to  him  they  were  plain 
common  sense  —  but  to  most  of  the  people,  and 
in  time  to  the  King.  When  that  time  arrived,  and 
the  King  said  his  word,  the  Duke  gave  up  the  Seals 
with  the  utmost  cheerfulness  and  retired  to  his 
pleasures  and  the  routine  of  country  life.  But 
before  it  came  he  nearly  had  his  head  broken  and 
knew  it.  He  accepted  that  risk  as  part  of  the 
business  of  statesmanship. 

His  strength,  you  see,  actually  lay  in  his  want 
of  intelligence.  He  had  a  few  ideas  simply;  the 
rest  of  England  had  many  ideas  diffusely.  While 
his  enemies  were  coordinating  theirs  he  was  apply- 
ing his.  And  of  course  he  was  himself  a  strong 
man  —  never  beaten,  for  he  would  not  accept  de- 
feat; never  tired;  never  out  of  heart;  never  out  of 
work;  and  seldom  out  of  temper.  He  was  uni- 
versally respected,  universally  admired,  yet  less 


i  io  MRS.  LANCELOT 

beloved  than  many  a  less  remarkable  man.  In 
some  women,  in  a  few  men  his  great  qualities  led 
up  to  a  sort  of  blind  idolatry  which  showed  his 
deficiencies  as  love-worthy;  but  by  the  great  ma- 
jority he  was  treated  as  an  institution.  Most  men 
had  the  feeling  for  him  which  they  have  for  the 
House  of  Commons,  the  Church  and  the  Bank  of 
England.  They  are  old,  they  are  weighty,  they 
are  respectable,  they  are  dull.  You  might  go  to 
the  poll  for  them,  but  not  to  the  stake.  They  do 
not  fire  the  blood,  stir  the  pulse,  make  the  heart 
beat.  Nor  did  the  Duke.  Age,  weight,  respecta- 
bility, efficiency  he  had;  but  he  was  cold-blooded, 
and  he  ignored  the  people.  He  had  no  enthusi- 
asms, or  if  he  had  them,  kept  them  under  double 
lock;  he  had  few  affections,  and  those  which  he 
had  were  not  those  which  appeal  to  the  popular 
sentiment.  His  wife  and  he  had  a  bowing  ac- 
quaintance; he  was  on  terms  of  club  friendship 
with  his  sons,  and  used  to  write  to  his  married 
daughter  (whose  husband  he  despised)  as  "  My 
dear  Lady  Wendlebury."  Even  with  the  women 
of  his  tenderer  relationship  —  and  there  were 
many  —  his  attitude  was  that  of  cool  companion- 
ship —  so  far  as  could  be  seen.  The  fact  was,  he 
distrusted  enthusiasm  as  other  men  distrust  the 
bottle.  He  had.  a  notion  that  he  might  very 
easily  make  a  fool  of  himself  about  a  woman  — 
and  twice,  at  least,  he  did.  Except  on  very  rare 


THE  DUKE  OF  DEVIZES          in 

occasions,  when  his  sentiment  overcame  his  cau- 
tion, he  held  his  mistresses  at  arms'  length,  and 
got  as  little  out  of  them  as  he  gave.  He  was  a 
joyless  man,  as  well  as  a  griefless  man  —  bleakly 
in  the  mean;  a  cold-blooded  man;  with  sentiment 
instead  of  emotion,  and  appetite  instead  of  pas- 
sion. Yet,  as  I  say,  once  and  again  the  secret  pool 
of  his  blood  was  stirred,  and  on  the  surge  of  its 
wave  he  could  be  carried  to  fantastic  lengths  of 
sacrifice.  A  strange  personality  —  as  strange, 
precisely,  as  any  other  human  creature  in  this 
world,  but  no  stranger.  If  one  single  man  among 
the  millions  of  us  knew  in  and  out  one  single  other 
man,  he  would  find  that  he  was  not  the  unique  phe- 
nomenon he  had  always  supposed  himself.  We 
are  all  odd  fishes,  I  believe ;  and  that 's  why  we 
shall  never  be  socialists.  Our  nature  is  in  the 
way. 

Such  was  the  Duke  of  Devizes,  whose  eye  was 
now  upon  the  Lancelots,  or  one  of  them. 


XI 

VAUXHALL 

,  it  seemed,  knew  his  world  while 
he  contemned  it.  His  prophecy  came  to 
pass.  He  had  told  his  Georgiana  that,  after  the 
Ogmore  party,  she  would  be  taken  up  by  the  fash- 
ionables; and  so  she  was.  Chariots  blocked  the 
ways  of  Smith  Square,  great  horses  pawed  the 
road  before  her  modest  dwelling.  Tall  footmen 
presented  cards  to  the  page-boy.  Cards  for 
drums,  balls,  dinners  and  routs  came  in.  The 
thing  was  very  real,  it  seemed;  but  Diana  clinched 
the  matter. 

Diana,  Lady  Hodges,  though  she  brought  her 
husband  up  for  the  season  with  punctuality  and 
despatch,  had  not  so  far  seen  much  of  her  younger 
sister.  She  had  made  the  mistake  of  neglecting 
what  she  did  not  understand.  Clarges  Street  and 
Smith  Square  cannot  live  together,  she  had  sup- 
posed, or  could  not,  until  Berkeley  Square  showed 
them  how  it  could  be  done.  But  then  Diana 
proved  that  she  was  open-minded,  and  generous 
also.  She  took  her  cue  from  Berkeley  Square 
without  any  elder-sister  sort  of  fuss.  Two  days 

112 


VAUXHALL  113 

after  the  Ogmore  breakfast  her  dashing  landau 
was  at  Georgiana's  door,  and  herself  hugging 
Georgiana  in  the  parlor. 

"  My  word,  you  little  demure  hussy !  Is  this 
what  your  quiet  ways  bring  you  to !  The  Duke, 
my  gracious !  It  '11  be  the  King  next  —  and  then 

what  will  Lady  C say?     What  on  earth  he 

sees  in  you  — !  You  little  quiet  thing!  And  so 
you  creep  about,  you  mouse,  and  never  a  word  to 
anybody;  and  you  peer  sideways,  and  you  peer 
and  peer !  The  greatest  man  in  England  —  well, 
well!  Carnaby  came  home  and  told  me.  All 
the  clubs  have  it,  my  dear !  I  have  n't  been  into 
a  house  since  but  what  they  were  all  buzz-buzz 
with  it.  And  I  come  in  on  a  side  wind,  as  you 
may  say.  You  '11  make  me  somebody.  You  '11 
be  the  prop  of  your  toppling  family.  Now  I  '11 
confess  to  you,  Georgie,  I  never  expected  it  of  you. 
You  were  always  something  of  a  mystery  to  me. 
You  picked  up  Charles  behind  my  back  —  now 
confess  that  you  did.  It  was  while  I  was  being 
married  —  I  was  actually  before  the  altar."  Her 
roving  but  very  kindly  eyes  surveyed  the  mantel- 
piece. "  Bless  me !  All  London  on  pasteboard. 

4  Duchess  of  C ;  Duchess  of  N .     Earl 

and  Countess  of  Portree;  Countess  of  Morfa; 
Countess  Tibetot;  Marchioness  of  Kesteven; 
Mrs.  Maynard  —  what!  you've  Mrs.  Maynard 
at  your  feet?  H'm.  That's  like  the  ex-Lady 


n4  MRS.  LANCELOT 

Mayoress  to  the  new  one.  You  dear  little  sly 
thing,  I  must  hug  you  again !  " 

Georgiana  took  it  all  in  very  good  part.  She 
and  Diana  had  never  been  close  friends;  but  much 
is  permitted  to  elder  sisters  —  and  she  was  show- 
ing herself  generous.  Georgiana  had  no  other 
means  of  knowing  that  all  these  grandees  were  to 
Diana,  Lady  Hodges,  as  planets  to  a  firefly  except 
Diana's  own  admissions  quite  freely  made.  The 
news  did  not  exalt  her,  but  she  was  quite  ready 
to  admit  the  excellence  of  it.  All  she  could  say 
in  reply  to  repeated  ejaculations  of  wonder  was: 
"  I  don't  know  why  he  likes  me.  I  can't  think 
how  he  knew  me."  Diana  honestly  did  not  know 
either;  but  this  was  one  of  those  cases  where  the 
more  you  are  astonished,  the  more  you  may  be 
pleased. 

And  then  Diana  came  out  with  her  proposal, 
not  at  all  ashamed  to  let  it  appear  that  she  was 
cultivating  her  little  sister  because  she  had  become 
a  personage,  and  because  the  friendly  offices  of  a 
personage  might  be  of  use  to  herself.  Sir  Car- 
naby  had  obtained  tickets  for  the  Accession  Fete 
at  Vauxhall,  which  was  to  be  to-day  fortnight. 
They  had  room  in  the  coach  for  two  more. 
Would  Georgie  and  Charles  join  them?  The 
Duke  was  sure  to  be  there,  if  one  could  only  find 
him  —  but  the  crowd  would  be  prodigious. 
Everybody  said  that  the  illuminations  were  to  be 


G 


u 


"  Is  this  what  your  quiet  ways  bring  you  to?" 


VAUXHALL  117 

unexampled  —  Diana  supposed  because  it  would 
be  the  last  time  of  celebrating  the  event.  The 
fireworks  would  be  given  three  times.  Georgiana 
was  quite  willing :  so  the  matter  was  arranged. 

The  great  parties  were  attended,  and  Mrs. 
Lancelot  received  unwonted  attentions.  High 
ladies  sat  with  her,  patted  her  hand,  kissed  her  at 
parting;  high  gentlemen  paid  her  compliments  as 
they  circled  or  hovered  about  her  chair.  It  was 
the  proper  thing,  it  seemed,  to  assume  that  the 
Duke  was  to  be  present  at  these  assemblies,  al- 
though in  point  of  fact  he  was  not  present  at  any 
one  of  them.  He  was  engaged,  patently,  upon 
the  country's  affairs;  for  the  Ministry  was  beaten 
in  the  Lords  upon  a  motion  for  Reform,  and  out 
it  must  go.  Out,  in  fact,  it  went,  and  on  the  very 
day  of  the  Vauxhall  fete  the  Duke  and  his  friends 
had  been  down  to  Windsor  to  receive  the  seals. 
Georgiana,  following  all  this  as  best  she  could 
from  the  Morning  Post,  from  Charles,  from  her 
friends,  had  no  expectation  of  meeting  him  again, 
and  told  herself  that  there  was  no  reason  on  earth 
why  she  should.  "  You  're  a  little  nobody,  my 
dear  " —  so  she  addressed  herself  in  the  glass  as 
she  made  ready  for  Vauxhall,  "  and  he  's  Eng- 
land; so  there  's  no  need  for  you  to  make  yourself 
pretty."  But  she  did  it.  She  made  herself  as 
pretty  as  possible,  in  the  light  of  another  glass 
than  that  upon  her  dressing-table,  the  light  of  a 


ii8  MRS.  LANCELOT 

pair  of  keen,  bright  blue  eyes  —  critical,  she  felt, 
but  very  friendly.  Her  underdress  was  of  pale 
blue,  her  tunic  of  spangled  gauze.  She  wore  a 
white  and  gold  turban  with  an  aigrette,  and 
looked  as  much  like  a  fairy  queen,  to  him  who 
had  eyes  for  fairies,  as  is  convenient  for  any 
young  lady.  Her  eyes  shone  like  black  diamonds 
(for  they  always  looked  black  by  lamplight),  and 
her  color  was  that  of  a  blush  rose.  To  hide  a 
small  spot  on  her  cheek  (and  for  no  other  reason 
at  all,  she  vowed)  she  wore  a  little  patch.  There 
was  nothing  for  her  neck:  she  had  very  little 
jewelry.  Before  she  left  the  glass  she  just 
spanned  that  slim  neck  with  her  two  hands,  sur- 
veying herself,  fingered  the  lace  at  her  bosom  and 
considered,  was  she  getting  thin?  Already? 

"  I  don't  think  I  'm  really  very  pretty.  Charles 
has  never  said  so."  Her  eyes  narrowed  and 
gleamed.  She  caught  herself  half-smiling,  and 
then  she  blushed.  The  thought  that  sent  her 
blood  flying  was,  "  But  he  knew  me  masked,  and 
came  to  me  at  once."  Then,  quickly,  she  blew 
out  the  candles  and  went  downstairs.  Charles 
was  waiting  for  her  at  the  foot  of  them  with  her 
shawl.  If  he  thought  her  pretty,  he  refrained 
from  saying  so.  The  carriage  was,  of  course, 
late.  They  did  n't  start  till  half-past  ten. 

And  then  they  had  to  drive  back  behind  Pall 
Mall,  along  Jermyn  Street,  into  Piccadilly  to  win 


VAUXHALL  119 

a  place  in  the  string  of  traffic  all  set  for  the  same 
place.  The  crush  was  great,  the  rate  of  progress 
tedious.  They  were  more  than  an  hour  going 
through  the  Mall  from  St.  James's  to  Queen 
Anne's  Gate  and  so  towards  the  new  bridge. 
Charles  was  very  silent,  Sir  Carnaby  very  jocose 
about  Georgiana's  conquest.  Sir  Carnaby  was  a 
heavy-handed  man,  and  set  Charles's  teeth  on 
edge  with  every  stroke ;  but  Georgiana  laughed  at 
him.  She  was  very  happy  in  her  new  elevation, 
not  disposed  to  be  critical.  She  liked  enormously 
to  be  liked,  she  found  out,  and  was  grateful  to 
anybody  who  liked  her.  But  the  unfortunate 
Charles  contrived  to  make  the  journey  seem  al- 
most as  long  as  it  actually  was :  nobody  like  him 
for  stripping  the  nerves  of  their  defenses.  Diana, 
forever  fidgeting  with  her  person,  pulling  up  her 
laces,  patting  her  turban,  folding  and  unfolding 
her  shawl;  wondering  how  late  they  would  be, 
wondering  who  would  be  there,  whether  they 
would  have  supper,  how  they  ever  would  find  the 
carriage:  poor,  friendly,  foolish  Diana  nearly 
drove  Charles  mad  with  irritation  —  which,  when 
Georgiana  perceived  it,  brought  back  upon  her 
that  sense  of  chill  and  disillusion  he  had  provoked 
in  her  before.  So  the  slow  progress  began  to  be 
irksome,  and  when,  in  the  Bridge  Road,  they  came 
to  a  halt,  it  was  proposed  by  the  incurably  adven- 
turous Sir  Carnaby  that  they  should  get  out  and 


120  MRS.  LANCELOT 

walk  to  the  gates.  Charles  was  against  it,  but  was 
overruled.  Georgiana  was  eager  for  it,  Diana 
for  anything  that  she  had  not  been  doing.  Sir 
Carnaby  was  out  first,  and  offered  Georgiana  his 
arm.  "  Come  along,  Georgie,  I  '11  clear  you  a 
way.  We  '11  give  them  a  lead."  He  shouted  a 
great  "  Yoicks !  Hark  for'ard !  "  and  got  a  cheer 
from  the  crowd.  Linkboys  hailing  him  "  my 
lord  "  bounded  about.  He  chose  the  two  biggest 
and  off  they  set.  Charles  with  Diana  in  charge 
followed,  with  protest  in  every  stiff  line  of  him  — 
but  lost  them  in  a  dozen  yards.  Drifting  with 
the  current,  they  came  to  the  gates,  where  the 
broad  stream  must  narrow  down  to  single  file. 
Never  was  seen  such  a  surging  mass  of  people. 
Georgiana,  now  pale  with  alarm,  was  all  eyes  for 
Charles.  She  was  sure  that  he  would  be  equally 
anxious,  and,  if  anxious,  then  annoyed.  He  was 
always  annoyed  after  he  had  been  worried. 

Sir  Carnaby,  however,  would  n't  hear  of  stop- 
ping. To  begin  with,  as  he  said,  you  could  n't 
stop  when  you  were  being  pushed  from  behind. 
These  rascals  would  ride  us  down.  No  use  call- 
ing 'Ware  hounds!  to  them.  He  could  trust 
Diana  anywhere.  She  was  a  great-hearted  girl, 
a  bit  of  blood.  No,  no,  he  and  Georgie  would 
get  on  to  the  boxes.  There  they  would  wait,  and 
all  well.  So  it  was  to  be.  They  reached  the 
gates,  showed  their  tickets,  showed  the  others' 


VAUXHALL  121 

tickets,  and  were  in.  By  the  light  of  the  many 
colored  lanterns,  so  far  as  they  could  see,  the 
crowd  extended.  Away  off  behind  the  trees  was 
the  glare  of  the  great  orchestra  and  the  center- 
piece. Now  and  again  a  rocket  writhed  hissing 
up  into  the  black  and  broke  with  a  puff  and  rain 
of  stars.  The  press  was  very  good-humored,  of 
every  class  known  to  London,  higgledy-piggledy, 
—  citizens  and  citizenesses,  peers  and  their  ladies, 
fast  young  men,  ladies  of  the  class  known  as 
Paphian.  Sir  Carnaby  was  enjoying  himself,  but 
Georgiana,  though  interested,  was  nervous  about 
Charles,  and  could  not. 

Presently  they  met  acquaintances  of  Sir  Car- 
naby. "  Well  met,  well  met !  Madam,  your 
servant.  All  the  world  and  his  wife !  Allow  me 
to  present  you  to  my  charming  sister-in-law.  Mrs. 
Damport,  Mrs.  Lancelot;  Mr.  Damport  —  by 
the  Lord,  Jack  Damport,  the  very  last  man  alive 
I  should  have  looked  for  would  have  been  your- 
self. And  how  's  Sherwood  ?  And  how  does  the 
hunt  go?  Oh,  at  Rothley,  I  can  tell  you,  we  have 
some  bitches  — "  He  was  sincerely  glad  of  his 
friends;  he  had  dined;  he  expanded.  But  the 
crowd  invaded  him;  a  sudden  rush  scattered  the 
party,  and  Georgiana,  lifted  off  her  feet,  was 
driven  onwards,  alone.  Like  a  leaf,  flickering 
along  with  its  fellows  on  the  stream  of  an  autumn 
gale,  she  went  as  she  was  carried. 


122  MRS.  LANCELOT 

At  first  she  had  no  fears.  She  regained  her 
feet,  which  seemed  a  great  thing,  and  allowed  her- 
self to  drift.  One  or  two  backward  glances  for 
Sir  Carnaby  gave  her  admiring  eyes  —  not  his  — 
and  warned  her  that  she  had  better  not  repeat 
them.  So  she  was  urged  forward  to  the  entry  to 
the  great  arena,  and  once  inside  that,  with  more 
freedom  at  her  command,  she  selected  a  shadowed 
corner  near  the  box-entrance  where  she  could 
await  her  party.  There  she  stood,  a  little  serious 
figure  —  pale  now,  with  great  watchful  eyes  and 
her  mouth  folded  into  a  bud  —  a  trick  of  hers 
when  she  was  preoccupied. 

A  jaunty  creature  in  a  high  black  stock  —  white- 
faced,  greasy-haired,  bold-eyed  —  was  presently 
before  her,  hat  in  hand.  His  bows  were  pro- 
found. "  Miss,  your  servant.  Permit  me  to  in- 
troduce myself  —  Mr.  Silver,  Mr.  Frank  Silver, 
well  known  at  the  Royal  Exchange." 

Georgiana  stiffened  herself.  To  bow  or  not  to 
bow  ?  Her  head  just  moved. 

Mr.  Silver  with  a  broad  curve  of  his  hand  and 
hat  together  swept  into  the  lists  another  gentle- 
man. 

"My  friend  Mr.  Bagshawe,  Miss  —  a  good 
fellow,  though  slightly  —  yes,  slightly  —  Corin- 
thian in  disposition.  A  dancer,  Miss  —  very 
light  upon  his  toes.  May  I  hope  for  the  honor  of 


VAUXHALL  123 

handing  you  out?     Mr.  Bagshawe  will  speak  for 
himself." 

Georgiana  searched  the  shifting  scene  —  but  in 
vain.  She  tried  an  appeal. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
waiting  for  my  party.  Please  to  go  away." 

Mr.  Silver  exchanged  glances  with  Mr.  Bag- 
shawe; deep  called  to  deep. 

"  Jack,  what  say  you  ?  Can  we  desert  the 
young  lady?  " 

"  Never,  Frank,  while  Britons  rule  the  waves." 
Thus  emboldened,  Mr.  Silver  crooked  his  arm. 

"  Permit  me,  Miss,  to  escort  you.  Pray,  oblige 
me."  Georgiana's  blue  eyes  now  glittered. 

'  You  are  forgetting  yourself.  I  have  asked 
you  to  leave  me,  and  expect  it." 

"  Come  away,  Frank;  it 's  a  lady.  You  're  put- 
ting yourself  in  the  wrong."  Thus  Mr.  Bag- 
shawe; but  his  friend  rushed  upon  his  fate. 

He  advanced,  all  smirks;  he  was  very  near  her. 
She  felt  his  hot  breath  and  shrank  back  to  the 
wall.  At  that  moment  Mr.  Silver  felt  himself 
seized  by  the  coat  collar,  and  became  helpless  and 
incoherent. 

'  You  dirty  scoundrel  —  out  with  you !  "  Pro- 
pelled from  behind,  Mr.  Silver  lost  his  footing 
and  his  hat  and  was  shot  into  the  crowd.  Mr. 
Bagshawe  disappeared.  A  very  tall  and  broad- 


124  MRS.  LANCELOT 

chested  young  man  with  a  shock  of  tow-colored 
hair  above  a  fine  forehead,  a  flushed  and  rather 
scowling  young  man  with  a  very  red  and  full- 
lipped  mouth,  but  with  a  pair  of  fine  gray  eyes, 
stood  before  her  hat  in  hand.  He  was  breathless 
with  excitement  and  could  not  for  the  life  of  him 
speak. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Georgiana,  her  color 
high.  "  It  was  most  kind  of  you." 

The  young  man  bowed.  "  It  was  nothing  —  I 
wish  I  had  been  earlier  —  to  have  spared  you  the 
sight  of  such  people,"  he  said.  Then  he  bowed 
again  and  was  gone.  She  saw  him  shouldering 
his  way  through  the  crowd,  his  hat  still  in  his  hand. 
While  still  looking  after  him  she  heard  herself 
called  — "  Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  so  glad.  What  a 
time  it  has  been  I  "  Diana's  voice.  She  turned 
quickly  and  was  among  her  friends.  There  was 
Diana  with  bright  patches  of  color  in  her  cheeks 
—  there  was  Charles  biting  his  lip.  There, 
flushed  to  a  brick-red,  but  otherwise  calm  and 
frostily  smiling,  was  the  Duke  of  Devizes.  She 
had  seen  him  immediately  and  felt  his  appearance 
natural.  She  was  simply  and  sincerely  proud  of 
him.  Nobody  else,  she  thought,  would  have  ap- 
peared so  exactly  and  promptly.  The  gentleman 
who  had  appeared  still  more  exactly  was  forgotten. 

He  saved  the  situation,  picked  neatly  oft  it  any 
filaments  of  tragedy  that  may  have  been  clinging, 


VAUXHALL  125] 

to  it.  Two  fingers  to  Georgiana :  "What  a 
scene !  Bartholomew's  Fair !  Mrs.  Lancelot, 
you  would  have  renewed  my  youth  if  I  had  been  a 
minute  earlier.  But  I  am  grateful  to  your  hero. 
Now  let 's  get  out  of  this.  I  have  a  box,  I  be- 
lieve." She  thanked  him  with  grateful  eyes, 
lightly  accepted  by  his,  which  while  they  saw 
everything,  and  were  so  understood  by  hers,  ap- 
peared to  see  nothing. 

Charles  was  now  at  her  side.  "  My  dearest, 
how  terrible !  I  am  thankful  we  have  found  you. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  the  Duke's  assistance  we 
could  not  have  been  here.  Duke  " —  and  he 
turned — "  let  me  thank  you  from  my  heart." 

"  For  nothing,  Lancelot.  My  luck  holds,  I  see. 
It  is  something  to  be  known  all  over  London. 
Now,  Lady  Hodges,  it 's  your  turn  to  be  nervous. 
Where  's  your  husband  got  to?  " 

Diana  laughed.  "  On  Carnaby's  account ! 
My  dear  lord,  not  in  the  least.  Carnaby  will  be 
dancing.  We  might  go  and  look  at  him." 

It  ended  in  the  same  natural  way.  The  Duke 
gave  Georgiana  his  arm  and  strolled  away  with 
her,  leaving  the  others  to  follow.  No  reference  to 
her  adventure,  no  gallant  speeches,  no  professions. 
He  began  his  quiet  conversation  where  he  had  left 
it  at  Ogmore  House.  He  was  "  in,"  he  told  her, 
for  instance;  had  been  at  Windsor  that  very  day. 
The  King  had  shed  tears  over  him.  "  Tom,  Tom, 


126  MRS.  LANCELOT 

are  you  come  to  save  me?  Ah,  my  poor  coun- 
try I  "  The  likes  of  that.  The  fellow  drank  like 
a  fish  and  distilled  it  quite  naturally  in  tears. 
Now  he  was  going  to  await  events,  and  see  what 
the  other  fellows  could  do.  They  had  a  majority 
in  the  Commons  —  true ;  but  he  would  beat  them 
in  the  Lords,  and  drive  'em  to  the  country.  He 
didn't  think  that  they  could  do  it.  If  they 
did — ?  Why,  of  course  they  'd  have  to  have  it. 
But  they  should  fight  for  it. 

When  she  was  quieter,  he  became  more  per- 
sonal. "Why  do  you  come  to  these  things? 
You  're  too  fine,  my  dear.  Why  do  /  go  ?  Be- 
cause I  'm  not  fine  at  all.  I  like  to  see  'em  at 
their  beastly  pleasures.  I  like  to  know  all  the 
world  and  his  wife.  You  see,  I  Ve  got  annealed. 
I  Ve  been  pretty  hard  hammered.  But  a  girl  of 
your  sort  —  no,  no." 

She  said  that  she  thought  it  was  going  to  be 
amusing.  "  Well,"  said  he,  looking  down  with  a 
twinkle,  "  I  '11  do  my  best  for  you.  Now,  let 's 
observe  our  company  and  talk  scandal  about  'em. 
Whom  have  we  here?  "  He  looked  about  in  his 
leisurely,  cool  and  quizzing  way,  as  if  they  had  all 
been  marionettes  jigging  in  a  booth. 

High  and  low,  man  or  woman,  he  seemed  to 
know  something  of  everybody.  A  woman  passed, 
escorted.  "  That 's  Harriet  Wilcox,  that  piece. 
Not  in  your  country  at  all.  A  rogue,  with  the 


VAUXHALL  127 

waist  of  a  wasp,  and  the  tooth  of  a  wasp,  and  the 
temper  too.  The  less  we  have  to  say  about  her, 
the  better.  The  beau  she  has  with  her  is  Nevern. 
Fie  Nevern  they  call  him :  his  name  's  Fyfield.  I 
knew  his  father,  who  served  with  me  in  India  and 
had  two  wives.  Fine  figure  of  a  man.  I  've 
known  him  to  eat  raw  peacock  at  a  pinch.  Fie  's 
his  son,  a  peacock  too.  Now,  I  know  Harriet 
well  enough.  She  '11  skin  that  lad  —  but  we 
won't  talk  about  her.  You  and  she  don't  match." 
And  so  on  —  a  peer,  Lord  Torbolton;  a  peeress, 
Lady  Glentucket;  a  poet,  one  Tom  Campbell,  who 
to  her  was  the  Tom  Campbell;  with  him  another 
poet,  a  little  merry  obsequious  man  with  a  curly 
wig  and  soft  brown  eyes  —  who  stopped,  left  his 
companion,  and  came  up  tiptoe,  hat  against  his 
heart.  "  Another  Tom  Poet,"  said  the  Duke 
sotto  voce.  "  We  '11  talk  to  this  Tom.  The 
other  's  an  old  bore."  It  was  odd,  how  naturally 
he  dismissed  a  man  as  "  old  "  who  was  ten  years 
younger  than  himself. 

This  second  Tom  could  not  be  denied.  His 
bow,  his  smile,  his  friendly  eyes !  "  A  fine  night 
to  your  Grace !  And  an  entirely  fine  night  for 
your  lordship's  good  eyes!  What  a  scene  for  a 
statesman!  Rest  after  your  labors.  Ah,  now, 
give  my  poor  friends  a  turn  of  rest." 

"  How  do,  Mr.  Moore,"  said  his  Grace,  and 
offered  his  fingers.  Then,  "  Let  me  present  you 


128  MRS.  LANCELOT 

to  Mrs.  Lancelot,  my  friend  and  ally.  A  staunch 
Tory,  Mr.  Moore." 

Mr.  Moore  bowed  himself  to  a  right  angle. 
"  The  servant  of  Mrs.  Lancelot,  the  humble  serv- 
ant. I  had  the  honor  of  being  at  Lady  A 's 

two  nights  ago.  I  exchanged  pleasant  words  with 
your  fortunate  knight.  A  serious  conversation  — 
the  daughter  of  the  house,  Lady  Susan,  is  about 

to  make   happy  my   friend  Lord   M .     We 

spoke,  therefore,  of  Love  and  Hymen,  a  subject 
of  which  I  know  much,  having  a  dear  Bessy  at 
home  —  and  he  too  is  an  expert,  as  well  he  may 
be." 

"What  do  you  poets  make  of  all  this?"  the 
Duke  asked  him,  and  the  little  man  raised  his 
hands  and  let  them  flack  his  sides. 

"  Quicquid  agunt  homines!  My  Lord  Duke, 
these  are  the  stuff  that  you  and  I  alike  work  with. 
These  fine  fellows  will  be  electors  some  day. 
They  have  to  be  fed:  they  love,  they  breed,  they 
think—" 

"  Do  they,  by  gad?  "  said  the  Duke.  "  Then 
you  must  feed  'em,  I  take  it.  That 's  your  call, 
eh?  Well,  give  'em  wholesome  food,  Mr. 
Moore.  Fudge  is  better  for  them  than  Miss 
Lalla.  What  do  you  think  of  Lalla,  Mrs.  Lance- 
lot?" 

Georgiana  laughed  off  the  confusing  question, 
Mr.  Moore  helping  her. 


VAUXHALL  129 

"  Not  fair,  not  fair,  my  lord.  But  I  '11  tell 
Mrs.  Lancelot  this.  My  Bessy  hides  it  when 
some  of  her  county  visitors  come." 

"  I  think  she  's  quite  right,"  said  the  Duke. 
He  dismissed  the  poet  with  a  glance  which  nobody 
else  could  have  detected. 

"  Now  I  must  be  after  Tom  Campbell,"  said  the 
sharp-eyed  little  man.  "  A  thousand  pleasures  at- 
tend your  Grace.  Mrs.  Lancelot,  may  I  say  au 
revoirl  " 

"  I  hope  so,  indeed,"  she  told  him. 

He  hopped  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  then 
asked  if  he  might  call  and  pay  his  respects.  "  It 
would  be  a  real  honor,"  he  assured  her.  "  I  do 
hope  you  '11  permit  it." 

She  gave  him  a  smile  and  her  hand  —  which  he 
fervently  kissed.  Then  he  skipped  away. 

"  You  Ve  made  a  conquest  of  Tom,"  the  Duke 
said,  as  she  again  took  his  arm.  "  But  you  're  in 
conquering  vein,  I  see.  Who  was  your  hero  ?  — 
a  fine  young  man  to  look  at.  He  made  short  work 
of  your  two  rascals." 

"  I  don't  know  in  the  least.  I  'm  very  grateful 
to  him."  She  remembered  him  now:  a  hot  and 
fierce  youth.  His  scowling  brows  haunted  her. 

4  Your  husband  's  coming  to  see  me," —  thus  he 
broke  her  the  news.  And  then  she  looked  up 
flushed  and  excited;  and  he  saw  her  lip  quiver. 
"  Don't  thank  me,  my  dear.  He  's  rather  stiff, 


i3o  MRS.  LANCELOT 

but  he  's  a  worker,  I  know.  I  Ve  found  out  a 
good  deal  about  him.  He  '11  do  very  well,  if  you 
help  him,  I  don't  doubt." 

"  I !  "  cried  she,  looking  up  into  his  face.  He 
laughed  kindly. 

"  Yes,  you.  You  Ve  got  keener  eyes  than  he 
has.  He  's  too  anxious  to  get  on.  He  does  n't 
see  where  he  's  getting  to.  But  you  can  see  a  line 

—  and  I  '11  trust  him  to  follow  one.     I  would  n't 
trust  you  —  always.     One  of  these  days  we  shall 
have  you  a  little  Jacobin.     Never  mind.     We  're 
going  to  be   friendly.     Now  if  I  come  to  your 
door  some  fine  morning,  I  suppose  you  won't  re- 
fuse me  ?     Well,  I  shall  come.     I  'm  old  enough 
to  be  your  father,  I  daresay.     Is  that  a  bargain? 
Very  well.     Now   let 's  find  your  man   and  his 
party,  and  have  some  supper  if  they  '11  give  it  us 

—  and  then  we  '11  tell  Lancelot  that  he  's  wanted. 
Come  along." 

Her  little  hand  on  his  arm  told  him  what  he 
wanted  to  know.  No  happier  feet  than  hers 
tripped  the  gravel  of  Vauxhall  beside  a  manly 
pair. 

Charles  received  his  summons  with  a  profound 
inclination.  "  I  shall  be  proud  to  wait  upon  your 
Grace,"  he  had  said;  and  the  Duke,  "  ten  sharp." 
That  was  all.  Going  home,  Georgiana  was  very 
ready  to  be  stroked,  and  put  out  her  hand  as  far 
as  she  dared;  but  Charles  did  not  notice  it.  Full 


VAUXHALL  131 

of  his  future,  he  sat  well  back  with  folded  arms 
and  peered  out  of  window. 

There  was  a  block  on  the  bridge,  the  first  of 
many,  and  Sir  Carnaby  pointed  out  one  leaning 
there,  bare-headed,  looking  east.  "  See  that 
man !  "  he  said.  "  There  's  a  suicide  cut  and 
ready." 

As  he  spoke  the  ponderer  turned  and  looked 
into  the  carriage.  "  Second  thoughts  are  best, 
my  young  friend,"  said  Sir  Carnaby,  as  the  horses 
jerked  them  forward. 


XII 

GERVASE    POORE 

THE  young  man  on  the  bridge,  one  Gervase 
Poore,  was  he  who  had  rescued  Georgiana 
from  her  predicament  in  the  gardens.  He  leaned 
on  the  bridge  at  that  late  hour,  and  saw  what  Mr. 
Wordsworth  had  not,  who  had  done  it  on  another 
bridge,  but  at  much  the  same  unconscionable  time. 
Gervase  Poore,  like  Mr.  Wordsworth,  was  a  poet, 
and  like  Mr.  Wordsworth  was  not  read  by  his 
generation.  "  Cockney  School,"  said  the  Quarterly 
and  other  reviewers,  and  let  their  whips  crack  over 
his  thin  octavos.  In  his  present  vigil  he  saw  not 
the  mighty  heart  of  London,  for  he  doubted  its 
having  one ;  but  he  watched  rather  the  great  clouds 
roll  out  seawards,  driven  up  on  a  wet  wind  from 
the  west.  "  These,"  said  he,  "  are  messengers  of 
the  eternal  and  abiding  things,  at  the  gates  of  this 
brothel  and  madhouse  combined.  Or,  London  is 
like  a  great  bird-cage.  She,  that  innocent,  gentle 
and  single-hearted,  is  fluttering  in  there  along  with 
other  millions.  She  can't  get  out  —  She  's  at  the 
mercy  of  any  cold-eyed,  rapacious  brute  who  will 
get  her  into  a  corner.  God  in  Heaven!  and  she 

132 


GERVASE  POORE  133 

is  made  of  skyey  tissue  —  made  dainty  and  per- 
fect, to  be  a  true  man's  mate."  And  then  he 
turned  and,  as  chance  would  have  it,  saw  the  lady 
of  his  new  adoration.  He  saw  her  clearly,  recog- 
nizing instantly  the  turn  of  her  head  upon  its  slim 
neck,  the  roundness  of  her  cheek;  he  caught  a 
gleam  of  her  liquid  eye,  fixed,  it  seemed,  upon  him 
—  though  Georgiana  was  innocent  of  his  there- 
abouts and  had  nothing  of  him  in  her  mind. 

Although  he  was  a  poet  and  an  ardent  lover  of 
women,  having  no  conversation  with  man,  whom 
he  despised  as  heartily  as  the  Duke  of  Devizes 
himself,  or  any  other  high  Tory;  yet  he  was  an, 
observer  alike  of  what  he  loved  and  what  he  con- 
demned. He  was  clerk  to  an  attorney  in  Ser- 
geant's Inn,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  humors 
which  that  trade  enabled  him  to  study  must  have 
broken  with  his  master  years  ago  As  it  was,  this 
faculty  of  his  of  reading,  judging  and  pigeon-hol- 
ing mankind,  combined  with  the  theory  and  practice 
of  poesy,  did  contrive  to  keep  him  steady.  Add 
to  what  he  made,  a  fifty  pounds  a  year  which  was 
what  his  father  had  left  him,  and  you  have  all 
that  you  need  know  about  him  for  the  moment. 

He  had  gone  to  Vauxhall  on  this  particular 
evening  to  see  women.  His  daily  work  showed 
him  none ;  and  women  were  entirely  necessary  to 
his  moral  well-being.  Don't  misunderstand 
Poore;  he  was  not  at  all  vicious.  Far  from  that, 

9 


i34  MRS.  LANCELOT 

any  proposals  in  that  direction  would  have  hurt 
him  dreadfully.  But  the  beauty  of  a  woman  to 
him  had  a  specific  moral  significance  quite  apart 
from  any  which  she  may  have  had  herself. 
Beauty  was  holy  to  him;  he  said  that  if  he  was  to 
pray  he  must  see  beauty.  And  that  meant  women, 
since  Nature  was  denied  to  Londoners. 

So  it  was  that  he  saw  Georgiana  Lancelot,  and 
while  he  adored  her,  finding  in  her  "  his  soul's  pe- 
culiar food,"  placed  her  at  once.  He  knew  her 
sort,  he  said  to  himself.  There  was  a  woman  so 
innately  pure  that  evil  did  not  exist  for  her,  could 
not  for  lack  of  nutriment  exist  anywhere  near  her. 
That  was  not  one  of  your  prudes  by  design,  delib- 
erately chaste,  or  chaste  because  chastity  was  an 
ideal.  This  woman  was  chaste  by  nature  and 
would  be  so  though  she  loved  a  hundred  men  or 
sold  herself  to  a  hundred  that  loved  her.  He  saw 
her  encounter,  and  saw  that  she  was  annoyed,  but 
not  alarmed  "  for  her  virtue."  He  saw  that  it 
was  not  conceivable  to  her  that  the  fork-tongued, 
goat-footed  kind  could  assail  her  for  base  pur- 
poses. Incapable  of  baseness,  to  her  baseness 
was  not.  He  adored  her,  as  one  might  the  lucent 
beauty  of  a  star  in  heaven,  or  the  cold  young 
moon  in  a  sky  of  clear  amber.  And  at  first  he  was 
not  more  troubled  than  she  was. 

But  then,  being  now  in  fancy  by  her  side,  he  was 
made  angry,  and  anon  furious.  That  they  who 


GERVASE  POORE  135 

were  privileged  to  be  about  her  should  be  insensi- 
ble to  her  crystalline  quality,  that  they  should  not 
discern  the  God,  shocked  him  to  the  soul.  He  felt 
the  blood  surge  up  into  his  neck,  his  neck  swell  — 
which  was  a  bad  sign.  Pushing  a  way  through  the 
drifting  line  of  people,  he  did  what  became  him, 
a  Perseus  without  his  Medusa  head;  and  then,  face 
to  face  with  his  young  goddess,  was  himself 
turned  to  stone.  Her  clear  and  precise  words  of 
gratitude  left  him  dumb.  It  was  right  that  she 
should  have  nothing,  or  little,  to  say  to  the  likes 
of  him;  but  there  was  a  flatness,  all  the  same, 
about  such  an  end  to  the  adventure.  He  bowed 
and  fled  the  presence ;  but  gaining  courage,  stopped 
on  the  other  side  of  the  arena,  out  of  her  sight, 
and  saw  her  with  her  friends  about  her.  They 
borrowed  from  her  an  enormous,  overpowering 
interest;  they  served  about  the  Presence.  He  ab- 
sorbed Diana,  Charles,  even  whiskered  Sir  Car- 
naby;  and  then  among  them  he  saw  one  who  made 
him  hold  his  breath.  So  that  was  it!  He  knew 
that  erect,  thin,  little  great  man ;  he  knew  —  all 
London  knew  —  those  quiet  and  cold  blue  eyes. 
"  So  she  's  shadowed  by  that  old  brute !  "  The 
sight  of  the  man's  possessory  eye,  of  his  propri- 
etary greeting,  turned  him  cold,  then  hot.  He 
found  himself  trembling,  and,  unable  to  bear  the 
discovery,  pushed  away.  But  Georgiana's  slim 
and  delicate  beauty,  her  carven  face,  haunted  him 


136  MRS.  LANCELOT 

wherever  he  turned.  Vauxhall  became  a  den  of 
thieves,  a  cage  of  vipers,  and  he  had  to  leave  it. 
He  did,  and  leaned  on  the  bridge  for  an  hour  or 
more,  watching  the  cloud  rack  as  it  streamed  up 
from  the  west  and  with  all  its  secrets  of  the  great 
open  places  hurried  over  London,  urgent  for  the 
sea.  To  him,  poet,  these  vaporous  masses  were 
informed  with  conscious  life.  They  were  winged 
spirits,  messengers,  angels  of  mystery  —  huge 
beings  shadowing,  threatening,  warning,  inspiring 
the  minds  of  men,  and  why  not  indeed?  How  if 
the  pathetic  fallacy  be  not  fallacious?  How  if  the 
feelings  we  seem  to  lend  to  earth  and  sky  be  really 
borrowed  from  them?  Thus  he  would  have 
cried  out,  to  whom  the  swift  clouds  were  hiero- 
phants.  Under  them  now  he  brooded  upon  their 
rune,  and  beside  him,  hardly  shadowed  now, 
Georgiana  stood,  but  a  transfigured  Georgiana,  a 
wide-eyed,  ethereal  creature,  touched,  she  too,  with 
mystery.  This,  again,  was  the  informed  soul  of 
Georgiana,  not  that  possessed,  plumed  and  silken 
lady  of  the  Vauxhall  lamps,  but  the  essential 
Georgiana.  That  exquisite  being,  it  might  be, 
was  subject  to  the  chill-eyed  duke,  at  the  bidding 
of  other  persons  —  statesmen,  politicians,  bucks 
and  dandies.  Be  it  so.  He  must  be  content  to 
have  it  so.  The  essence  loomed  apart  from  them, 
close  by  his  side.  But  now  you  will  understand 


GERVASE  POORE  137 

why,  under  some  insurgent  bitter  gust,  he  likened 
London  to  a  bird-cage,  and  saw  Georgiana  flutter- 
ing shadowed  within  it. 

The  second  glimpse  which  he  had  of  her  in 
her  carriage  gave  him  better  heart.  The  duke 
was  not  there.  Thank  God  for  a  moment  of 
respite  !  The  men  with  her  looked  honest.  One 
was,  no  doubt,  her  husband.  He  fancied,  the 
younger  man,  grave,  with  dark  whiskers.  That 
he  should  understand  her  was  not  to  be  hoped; 
but  he  looked  a  gentleman.  He  strode  homeward 
to  his  lodging  in  Clerkenwell  with  Georgiana  as 
clear  before  him  as  a  head  on  a  cameo.  He  glo- 
ried in  the  possession,  cherished  and  fostered  it 
all  he  knew.  For  many  and  many  a  day  she  made 
his  hours  a  waking  glory.  He  triumphed  in  his 
discovery;  he  heard  music  all  about  him.  And 
then  he  fell  to  upon  a  poem  which  was  to  get 
him  a  hearing.  "  Nausithoe  "  it  was,  which  has 
since  become  known. 

Nausithoe  was  a  nymph  of  Proserpine's,  flower- 
gathering  with  her  that  fatal  morning  on  Enna, 
accompanying  her,  by  prayer  and  entreaty,  into 
the  Shades,  serving  her  faithfully  there.  They 
were  bosom  friends,  those  two,  and  might  not  be 
separated,  it  seems.  There,  in  the  nether  world, 
she  was  beloved  by,  and  fell  herself  to  love,  one 
of  the  dead,  a  pale  phantom  of  what  once  had 


138  MRS.  LANCELOT 

been  a  true  man.  They  loved,  they  wedded,  and 
an  unsubstantial  bliss  was  theirs,  the  very  ecstasy 
of  the  love-torment,  never  to  be  sated  without 
peace.  All  this,  related  in  that  supersenuous, 
hot-house  manner  which  acted  upon  Quarterly  re- 
viewers as  red  pepper  upon  a  wound,  may  be  read 
in  its  place  —  but  he  gets  Georgiana  prettily  into 
his  octosyllabics. 

She,  bosom's  mate,  the  delicate, 

Child-faced,  gray-eyed,  of  sober  gait, 

Of  burning  mind,  of  passion  pent 

To  image-making,  ever  went 

Where  wonned  her  mistress;  for  those  two 

By  the  heart's  grace  together  grew  .  .  . 

And  then  he  hails  her : 

O  thou  meek 

And  gentle  vision,  let  me  tell 
Thy  beauties  o'er  I  love  so  well: 
Thy  sweet  low  bosom's  rise  and  fall, 
Pulsing  thy  heart's  clear  madrigal, 
Or  how  '.he  blue  beam  from  thine  eyes 
Imageth  all  love's  urgencies; 
Thy  lips'  frail  fragrance,  as  of  flowers  — 
Remembered  in  penurious  hours 
Of  winter  exile;  of  thy  brow, 
Not  written  as  thy  breast  of  snow 
With  love's  faint  charact'ry,  for  his  wing 
Leaves  not  the  heart  long.     Next  I  sing 
Thy  thin  quick  fingers  in  whose  pleaching 
Lieth  all  healing,  all  good  teaching  — 
For  with  them,  touching  discontent, 
I  know  how  thou   art  eloquent! 


GERVASE  POORE  139 

He  reads  her  here,  from  the  without  to  the 
within,  with  remarkable  vision;  and  throughout 
the  poem,  though  he  knows  nothing  whatever 
about  her  but  what  any  man  in  the  street  might 
see  for  himself,  he  never  gets  off  the  track  which 
she,  in  herself  as  she  was,  must  needs  have  fol- 
lowed. Himself  we  surmise  in  Endocles,  the 
ghostly  lover.  He  has  n't  concerned  himself  to 
be  precise  with  Endocles,  whose  trouble  really  was 
that  he  was  only  ghostly  on  paper.  Poore  was 
far  too  human.  But  Nausithoe,  so  long  as  she  re- 
mained a  lady  in  a  book,  was  a  safety-valve  for 
much  dangerous  vapor. 

Meantime  he  contrived  to  see  her  again  —  Nau- 
sithoe in  her  sweet  tenement  of  flesh  —  and  this 
by  a  very  simple  means.  He  devoted  his  evening 
hours  to  shadowing  the  Duke,  guessing  very  well 
that  to  whatso  great  house  he  went  the  fair  victim 
of  his  fancies  would  go  also.  It  was  not  at  all 
difficult  to  find  out  the  semi-public,  quasi-official 
engagements  of  so  public  a  man;  he  had  friends 
to  help  him  too.  Having  tracked  him  down,  then, 
to  this  house  or  that,  he  waited  with  the  crowd 
there  always  is  at  the  doors,  behind  the  ranked 
footmen,  until  his  lady  should  arrive  or  come  out. 
He  failed  the  first  night,  for  the  Duke  went  to 
dine  with  a  royal  Prince ;  he  failed  the  second,  for 
he  went  to  a  crib  in  Covent  Garden  to  see  a  fight ; 
but  the  third  night  he  succeeded  beyond  his  hopes, 


i4o  MRS.  LANCELOT 

when  his  Grace  went  to  Smith  Square,  and  for  a 
few  moments  appeared  at  an  open  upper  window 
and  stood  there  with  Georgiana  herself  contem- 
plating the  starry  heavens.  She  was  then  within 
speaking  distance  of  him.  He  heard  her  actual 
voice,  marked  every  little  movement.  Once  she 
laughed,  low  and  musically.  The  Duke  said  lit- 
tle, but  looked  (Poore  judged)  much.  His  car- 
riage, waiting  for  him  outside,  took  him  off  at 
eleven.  Soon  after  that  Charles  came  to  shut  the 
window,  but  she  came  up  behind  him,  and  put 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  presently  leaned  her 
cheek  on  her  hand.  Poore  watched  that  beautiful 
action  in  a  transport,  and  was  furious  with  the  man 
that  he  did  not  respond.  But  Charles  held  him- 
self stiffly,  and  gazed  into  the  night  in  silence. 
She  said  a  few  words,  looking  upwards  at  him; 
he  answered  in  monosyllables  formal  and  remote. 
For  that  Poore  cursed  him.  "  The  Jailer  "  he 
called  him,  and  in  his  bitterness,  "  The  Eunuch 
of  the  Door."  It  was  easy,  after  that,  to  find 
out  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lancelot  lived  in  that 
house  —  far  easier  than  to  leave  it.  He  did  not 
in  fact  leave  it  until  he  had  seen  Mrs.  Lancelot 
kiss  her  glum  lord's  shoulder  and  withdraw  her 
white-garbed  presence  from  the  window.  Pres- 
ently after,  when  he  saw  a  light  above  and  guessed 
her  disrobing,  he  lifted  up  his  hands.  "  God  keep 


GERVASE  POORE  141 

her  safe  from  harm !  "  he  prayed,  and  went  home 
to  Clerkenwell. 

The  tortured  pair,  Nausithoe  and  Endocles, 
strained  together  in  their  empty  rapture  through 
two  fervent  stanzas  before  Poore  went  to  his  pal- 
let bed.  After  this,  he  was  seldom  far  from 
Georgiana's  house  after  dark,  and  could  have  told 
you  where  she  went  and  whom  met  as  well  as  The 
Morning  Post. 

Sergeant's  Inn  claimed  him  by  day.  He  could 
not  guess  the  progress  of  the  Duke's  affair.  And 
it 's  well  that  he  could  not. 

There  is  not  much  more  to  be  said  of  him  at 
this  moment.  He  was  twenty-six  years  old  by  the 
almanac,  but  hardly  out  of  swaddling  clothes  by 
the  computation  of  London.  He  was  about  to 
publish  a  volume  of  perfervid  lyrics,  and  was 
known  already  to  Leigh  Hunt,  Tom  Moore  and 
similar  adventurers,  successful  and  unsuccessful. 
Leigh  Hunt  printed  him  now  and  then  in  The 
Examiner,  Tom  lent  him  a  guinea  when  he  had 
one,  and  really  believed  in  his  genius.  He  was  his 
own  constant  backer,  and  quite  unmoved  by  the 
neglect  or  apathy  of  those  who  read  him  and  those 
who  did  not.  He  was  a  violent  reformer  in  pol- 
itics, a  born  leader  of  lost  causes.  If  Southey 
could  have  been  made  uncomfortable  or  Coleridge 
galvanized  into  mental  activity  by  a  revival  of 


142  MRS.  LANCELOT 

Pantisocracy,  Gervase  Poore  would  have  been  the 
thaumaturge  to  have  done  it.  He  was  probably 
the  only  pantisocrat  alive;  but  he  was  an  out-and- 
outer,  prepared  at  a  moment's  notice  to  carry  off 
a  man's  wife  and,  he  believed,  to  share  her  spir- 
itual perfections  with  Tom  or  Dick.  This,  I  say, 
he  firmly  believed;  but  the  fact  of  the  matter  is 
that  if  ever  an  occidental  was  born  to  be  despot 
over  a  harem  it  was  this  young  man.  He  adored 
women  —  but  as  a  master;  and  it  may  well  be 
that  they  would  accept  him  on  no  other  terms. 
But  all  this  was  pure  theory,  for  he  had  known,  so 
far,  practically  nothing  of  them. 

Pray  don't  imagine  that  this  was  a  virtuous 
youth  any  more  than  a  vicious.  He  was  not  that, 
as  the  northern  world  conceives  virture.  His  al- 
truism was  skin-deep,  or  tongue-deep,  or  pen-deep, 
if  you  like.  In  himself  he  was  overbearing,  pre- 
sumptuous, impulsive  and  compulsive.  He  be- 
lieved in  himself  and  in  nobody  else;  he  believed 
in  the  right  of  the  conqueror  to  the  spoils,  and  in 
his  own  idea  he  was  the  conqueror.  In  the  matter 
of  beauty  —  which  is  the  whole  of  the  poet's 
matter  —  he  had  an  eye  for  it,  and  a  furious 
instinct  to  possess  what  he  saw.  The  two 
things  when  they  go  together  and  with  inso- 
lence make  a  Byron;  but  in  Gervase,  who  had 
not  the  birthright  of  a  Byron,  they  were  tempered 
by  awe.  A  very  beautiful  thing  intimidated  him 


GERVASE  POORE  143 

while  it  drew  him  after  it.  He  would  not  will- 
ingly hurt  any  beautiful  thing,  but  if,  without 
hurting  it,  he  could  have  it  —  have  it  he  must  and 
would.  And  he  had,  perhaps  unduly,  the  poet's 
faculty  of  persuading  himself  that  never,  never, 
never  could  he  hurt  the  beautiful  thing  desired 

—  in  which  persuasion,  alas,  he  was  very  often 
deceived,  and  it  along  with  him.     For  he  had  the 
tongue  of  an  angel  when  he  desired.     Horrible 
failure,   horrible   disenchantment,   horrible   wreck 
impended  and  even  came  thundering  down  upon 
the  fair  promise  which  he  had  won  by  his  words 

—  times  and  again  this  happened.     But  after  the 
dreadful  affliction,  and  a  time  of  blankness  and 
eclipse,  he  arose  like  a  giant  out  of  sleep,  renewed 
by  contact  with  the  earth,  and  saw,  and  persuaded, 
and  conquered  again  —  himself  first,  and  then  the 
lovely  thing  desired.     And  so  from  age  to  age 
he  waxed,  and  each  period  was  marked  by  a  poem, 
and  each  poem  sounded  a  birth  and  a  death. 

With  the  form  of  some  sulky  young  barbarian 
of  old,  shock-headed,  flushed,  broad-shouldered 
and  of  gleaming  eyes,  with  the  swift  discernment 
of  an  eagle  and  the  ruthless  dominion  of  some 
king  of  the  forest,  with  the  tongue  of  an  apostle, 
and  the  pen  of  a  prophet  and  the  heart  of  a  child 

—  such  was  Gervase  Poore. 


XIII 


IF  Charles  Lancelot  realized  that  he  owed  what 
he  had  so  long  expected  to  his  wife,  he  was 
not  the  man  to  admit  it,  even  to  himself.  His 
self-esteem  was  of  that  sensitive  quality  that  it 
must  at  all  costs  be  kept  from  the  air.  It  is  to 
be  suggested  that  at  the  back  of  his  mind  know- 
ledge of  the  truth  was  lying  like  a  bruise,  whose 
only  hope  of  health  lay  in  the  feeling  that  if  in- 
deed it  was  so  she  had  shown  wifely  duty  by  her 
efforts.  And  although  he  had  made  clear  to  her 
of  what  use  she  could  be  to  him,  and  had  been 
over-anxious  for  her  "  influence  "  to  begin,  now 
that  it  had  indeed  begun  he  could  not  bear  to  think 
of  it.  The  moment  he  had  confided  in  her  he 
felt  that  he  had  betrayed  himself,  given  himself 
into  her  little  hands;  and  at  that  moment  after  the 
Ogmore  breakfast,  when  she  had  made  clear  to 
him  that  her  "  influence  "  had  miraculously  begun 
to  work,  although  he  went  on  to  improve  the  occa- 
sion, it  had  been  with  a  sinking  of  the  spirits,  and 
with  qualms  which  never  disappeared,  but  struck 

144 


REFLECTIONS  OF  CHARLES      145 

suddenly  at  him  like  pangs  at  the  heart.  Such 
was  Charles  Lancelot,  who  felt  with  a  dreadful 
certainty  at  the  back  of  his  brain  that  he  was  going 
to  be  jealous  of  his  patron. 

Not  a  word  of  Georgiana  had,  naturally,  been 
said  when  he  paid  his  visit  to  Wake  House.  He 
had  been  ushered  into  the  Duke's  library  by  his 
soft-footed  man  and  had  found  the  hero  sunning 
himself  at  the  open  window,  erect,  fully  dressed, 
unconscious  of  anything  but  the  business  immedi- 
ately in  hand.  Two  fingers  for  him:  "Ha, 
Lancelot,  how  do?  "  —  and  then  he  had  plunged 
into  the  middle  of  the  thing,  as  his  custom  was. 

"  I  think  that  you  and  I  can  serve  each  other. 
I  Ve  had  a  note  from  Bamfylde  " —  that  was  the 
Secretary  to  the  Treasury.  "  He  tells  me  all  I 
want  to  know.  I  'm  getting  rid  of  Spendlove  — 
not  a  scrap  of  use.  The  man  has  no  method. 
Besides  that,  he  talks.  I  gave  him  six  hundred  a 
year  not  to  talk  —  and  he  talks.  I  gave  him  a 
horse,  which  he  can't  sit.  Now,  can  you  get  into 
the  House  ?  What  interest  have  you  ?  Can't  old 
Strangways  do  anything  for  you  ?  He 's  your 
father-in-law,  I  think?"  That  was  the  nearest 
they  got  to  Georgiana. 

Charles  said  that  Sir  Peter's  borough  was  occu- 
pied by  Sir  Peter  himself  at  present.  He  had 
hopes  of  one  of  Lord  Drem's  —  that  peer  being 
a  connection  of  his  mother's. 


i46  MRS.  LANCELOT 

The  Duke  knew  Lord  Drem.  "  Yes,  he  might 
do  it,  I  should  say.  Do  you  speak  to  him  —  and 
so  will  I.  We  shall  want  all  the  men  we  can  get 
if  this  damned  scheme  is  to  be  countered.  But 
they  '11  have  it,  you  know.  They  're  bound  to 
have  it.  That 's  what  comes  of  putting  ideas  into 
English  heads.  It  takes  the  deuce's  time  to  get 
'em  there ;  but  when  you  do,  they  root  like  couch- 
grass,  and  before  you  know  where  you  are  they  're 
part  of  the  soil.  I  don't  promise  our  people  more 
than  a  square  fight.  That  they  shall  have.  We 
shan't  stop  in  long,  I  fancy ;  but  we  're  in  now  — 
and  by  God  we  '11  have  a  go  at  them." 

Charles  said  that  he  had  great  hopes  in  the 
English  respect  for  property,  which  hitherto  had 
always,  ultimately,  prevailed.  He  would  have 
continued  with  his  comfortable  words,  but  the 
Duke  shook  his  head.  "  They  shall  have  a  fight 
for  it  —  that 's  all  I  can  say  at  present.  Then 
there  '11  be  Catholic  Emancipation  to  face. 
That 's  involved  in  the  other  damned  thing. 
Now,  I  'd  give  'em  that  if  I  had  my  way,  but  the 
King  won't  hear  of  it.  What  possesses  him  about 
it,  I  don't  pretend  to  understand.  Respect  for  his 
father's  memory?  That's  what  he  says,  when 
he  's  at  his  last  shift.  It 's  unfortunate  to  respect 
your  father's  memory  for  one  of  the  least  respect- 
able things  he  e.ver  did  —  that 's  all  I  can  say. 
He  let  down  Billy  Pitt,  you  know  —  made  the 


•'I  think  that  you  and  I  can  serve  each  other" 


149 

fellow  out  a  liar.  Damme,  that 's  not  respectable, 
to  my  way  of  thinking.  No,  no,  the  fellow  's  got 
something  else  in  his  head.  He  shies  at  the  Cath- 
olics —  Lord  knows  why."  Charles  listened  re- 
spectfully, not  knowing  then,  what  he  was  to  find 
out  before  long,  that  one  of  the  chief  uses  to 
which  the  Duke  put  his  secretaries  was  to  let  off 
his  spleen  against  his  principles  and  party  into 
their  ears.  The  Duke  was  a  Tory  by  inheritance ; 
by  conviction  he  was  a  despot.  He  loved  work 
and  showed  that  he  could  do  it.  He  had  never 
found  anybody  else  who  could  do  it  half  so  well, 
and  he  was  very  unwilling  to  let  them  try.  He 
could  have  got  on  perfectly  well  without  a  secre- 
tary; but  he  wanted  Charles,  for  reasons  of  his 
own. 

After  a  little  more  talk  the  bargain  was  struck. 
Charles  was  to  have  six  hundred  a  year,  and  begin 
his  work  at  once.  He  was  to  get  into  the  House 
as  soon  as  he  could  —  the  Duke  thought  that  it 
might  be  managed  in  the  autumn  "  if  Drem  was 
agreeable,"  and  if  "  Drem's  man "  could  be 
bought  up.  He  thought  that  a  baronetcy  ought 
to  do  it.  Directly  Charles  was  in  the  House  he 
would  be  found  a  billet,  with  what  appertained. 
A  man  called  Netherbow  —  Lord  Netherbow  — 
was  Under  Secretary  for  Foreign  Affairs,  but  he 
was  in  the  Lords,  and  they  must  have  a  Com- 
moner. Why  shouldn't  Charles  take  that? 


1 50  MRS.  LANCELOT 

Charles's  eyes  gleamed  fiercely;  he  saw  no  reason 
why  he  should  not,  but  contented  himself  with 
bowing  his  head.  Well,  we  'd  see  about  all  that 
when  the  time  came.  That  which  had,  at  the 
moment,  to  be  made  clear  was  what  the  Duke 
wanted  of  his  private  secretary.  It  was  done  with 
great  precision.  "  You  '11  be  here  every  morning 
at  nine,  and  have  everything  cut  and  dried  for  me. 
I  ride  at  eight  and  am  in  by  ten.  At  twelve  I 
ride  again  —  if  I  can.  I  take  no  luncheon,  and  go 
down  to  the  House  at  four.  You  '11  have  to  come 
too,  in  case  I  want  you  —  which  I  almost  certainly 
shall.  At  eight  I  dine,  whatever  happens.  Then 
I  'm  out.  I  get  home  before  midnight,  and  then. 
I  clear  up,  and  get  the  slate  wiped  for  next  day. 
Now  if  I  vary  from  that  line  of  country  I  don't 
like  it.  I've  grown  into  it;  it  suits  me;  it  will 
be  your  business  to  see  that  I  don't  get  out  of  it. 
So  long  as  I  plug  along  in  those  ruts  you  may  do 
what  you  please,  see  whom  you  please,  and  tell 
'em  what  you  please.  What  I  tell  you  you  '11 
write,  and  what  you  write  I  shall  sign.  I  think 
that 's  all.  On  extraordinary  occasions  we  shall 
have  to  do  extraordinary  things ;  but  the  less  often 
they  come  the  better  I  shall  be  pleased,  and  the 
quicker  I  get  back  into  my  jog-trot  the  better  for 
the  pair  of  us.  Good  morning."  Two  fingers,  a 
sharp  look,  not  unfriendly,  a  curt  nod,  and  the 
thing  was  done.  Charles  walked  back  to  the 


REFLECTIONS  OF  CHARLES      151 

Treasury  for  the  last  time  as  a  clerk,  and  imparted 
his  news  to  his  Georgiana  in  the  evening.  She 
would  have  been  more  triumphant  if  he  had.  She 
would  have  been  on  his  knee,  with  her  arm  about 
his  neck,  her  cheek  to  his,  or  her  lips,  if  such 
things  had  been  in  order.  But  they  were  not  in 
order.  They  were  inconceivable.  The  news  was 
given  through  an  open  door  while  Charles  in  his 
room  tied  his  neckcloth  for  a  dinner  party,  and 
Georgiana  in  hers  was  doing  her  hair.  They 
were,  as  usual,  going  into  the  high  world,  and 
had  been  invited  "  to  meet  the  Duke  of  Devizes," 
the  Prime  Minister.  And  meet  him  they  did; 
and  she  sat  next  to  the  great  man,  who  talked  to 
her  through  most  of  dinner. 

Now  began  what  you  and  I  would  call  his  infat- 
uation for  Georgiana,  but  what  the  London  world 
which  knew  him  called  otherwise.  He  so  im- 
pressed it  that  he  was  believed  to  pursue  his  fancy 
of  the  moment  as  Sir  Carnaby  Hodges  and  per- 
sons of  the  sort  chased  the  fox,  as  it  were  by 
prerogative  of  birth,  as  it  were  de  race.  Sir  Car- 
naby's  pursuit  was  not  called  infatuation,  but  sport. 
The  Duke's  taste  for  young  and  occasionally  pretty 
women  (for  by  no  means  all  his  friends  had  been 
outwardly  fair)  was  not  called  so  either,  but  gal- 
lantry. To  everybody  who  knew  anything  he  was 
notorious  for  gallantry.  He  was  a  man  of  quick 
fancy,  infinite  zest;  and  what  made  him  so  at- 


152  MRS.  LANCELOT 

tractive  to  women,  his  prestige  apart,  was  the 
entire  absence  of  pretense  about  him,  which 
seemed  irresistibly  to  imply  sincerity.  And  no 
doubt  but  he  was  sincere.  He  never  paid  compli- 
ments, never  flattered,  never  courted,  as  you  may 
say.  If  he  thought  a  woman  pretty,  he  told  her 
so  without  reserve.  He  had  of  course  told 
Georgiana  that  she  was  pretty.  "  Fact  is,  my 
dear,  that  you  're  an  uncommonly  pretty  woman," 
he  had  said.  He  had  neither  made  her  blush  nor 
her  heart  beat.  She  had  no  vanity,  and  did  not 
believe  herself  pretty  for  being  told  so;  but  his 
way  of  saying  it  had  helped  her.  It  implied  noth- 
ing in  the  way  of  desire  for  her  good  opinion;  it 
implied  nothing  at  all  but  what  he  believed  to  be 
a  fact.  "  The  fact  is,  my  dear,  it 's  an  uncom- 
monly fine  day; "  it  had  that  kind  of  effect. 
Georgiana,  therefore,  trusted  him,  as  every  other 
woman,  object  of  his  attention,  had  done  before 
her.  She  really  liked  him,  apart  from  the  glory 
of  him,  and  in  time  came  to  understand  that  it 
was  honestly  a  comfort  to  him  to  have  her  ear 
whenever  he  chose  for  it.  She  was  very  happy 
when  she  came  to  understand  that.  That  was  flat- 
tery indeed.  That  made  her  glow  with  pride. 
And  then  it  was  such  a  comfort  to  feel  that  she 
was  helping  Charles.  She  always  hugged  that  to 
her  bosom.  Sometimes  she  was  pained  that 
Charles  was  so  cold  about  it.  But  he  had  never 


REFLECTIONS  OF  CHARLES      153 

been  very  warm,  nor  had  she  as  yet  any  idea  how 
warm  a  man  could  be.  Nobody  so  far  had  made 
love  to  her  —  unless  you  call  profound  bows,  cer- 
emonial attention  to  her  needs  or  few  words  mak- 
ing love  —  which  she  certainly  did  not.  Charles, 
if  he  had  had  love  for  her,  had  assumed  it  made, 
and  assumed  it  accepted;  the  Duke  (if  he  felt  it) 
concealed  it.  She  had  no  evidence  that  there  was 
such  a  thing  in  the  world,  outside  novels.  And 
the  worth  of  novels,  said  she,  which  exalt  marriage 
to  golden  heights  above  the  world,  may  be  judged 
by  marriage  as  she  had  found  it.  A  business  part- 
nership, a  social  arrangement.  What  deeper  sig- 
nificance it  may  have  had,  what  private  raptures, 
were  lost  in  her  baby's  grave.  She  had  put  such 
wonder,  along  with  her  dreams,  far  from  her. 
She  believed  that  she  was  getting  old;  but  two 
people  knew  that  she  was  not.  One  was  the 
Duke,  who  saw  her  with  increasing  frequency  by 
day,  the  other  Poore  the  poet,  who  seldom  missed 
her  by  night  during  this  season  of  June  and  July, 
while  the  malignant  Whigs  were  holding  the 
House  of  Commons  against  the  Government  of 
the  day  and  starving  the  House  of  Lords  of  their 
proper  food  which,  as  everybody  knows,  is  the  re- 
jection of  Whig  measures.  This  they  did  by  the 
simple  method  of  having  no  measures  at  all.  But 
she  knew  nothing  of  Mr.  Poore  and  his  night- 
watches;  and  as  for  passion  and  gallantry,  elopings 


154  MRS.  LANCELOT 

and  divorces  and  such  like,  she  had  an  innocent 
mind,  and  would  have  classed  the  whole  lot  to- 
gether as  disagreeable. 

The  clubs  called  Georgiana  "  the  Duke's  new 
flame,"  and  agreed  that  it  was  a  neat-run  thing 
for  Lancelot.  He,  at  any  rate,  had  got  what  he 
wanted.  "  He  's  been  at  it  for  years,  I  happen  to 
know,"  said  the  ousted  Spendlove.  "  If  I  'd  had 
a  wife  with  eyes  of  that  size  I  should  n't  be  here." 
Spendlove  felt  sore. 

Hostesses  took  notice  of  her  more  slowly,  but 
as  she  gave  herself  no  airs  whatever,  but  on  the 
contrary  was  most  prettily  grateful  for  attentions, 
she  got  off  with  very  little  scandalous  comment. 
How  these  things  are  done  I  don't  pretend  to  say 
—  but  it  is  undoubted  that  from  about  the  begin- 
ning of  July  until  the  end  of  the  session  Georgiana 
was  not  only  asked  to  the  dinner-parties  which  the 
Duke  had  accepted,  but  was  either  taken  down 
by  him  (if  they  were  small)  or  placed  in  his  neigh- 
borhood if  they  were  big.  Routs  and  assemblies 
received  her  gladly  and  saw  her  attended  by  his 
Grace  as  a  matter  of  course.  She  went  to  Al- 
mack's,  and  so  did  he.  But  he  never  danced,  and 
she  would  not.  Charles,  it  is  to  be  added,  was 
always  present.  If  she  got  notes  of  invitation 
which  omitted  Charles  she  always  declined  them. 
And  she  had  the  further  delicacy  not  to  mention 
them  to  him. 


REFLECTIONS  OF  CHARLES      155 

All  this  meant  that  they  saw  very  little  of  each 
other  —  out  every  night,  home  late  —  Charles 
away  to  the  Duke's  by  nine  in  the  morning. 
What  kind  of  a  domestic  life  was  this?  Charles 
assured  himself  frequently  it  was  not  what  he  had 
sought  in  marriage  — •  and  never  once  saw  how  in- 
consistent he  was,  since  it  was  precisely  and  liter- 
ally what  he  had  sought.  Georgiana  frankly 
found  it  all  much  more  amusing  than  she  found 
her  own  drawing-room  with  Charles  in  it,  who  had 
at  this  time  the  air  of  silent  disapproval  of  her 
presences  and  absences  alike.  For  if  she  chanced 
to  be  out  when  he  came  in,  he  showed  her  evident 
traces  of  suffering  when  she  returned;  and  if  she 
were  in  he  was  unhappy  that  he  could  n't  make  her 
happier,  and  showed  that  too.  All  this  got  on 
her  nerves,  caused  her  to  be  fretful,  and  tempted 
her  to  seek  distraction  outside. 

I  believe  that  the  uncomfortable  Charles  suf- 
fered more  at  this  dawn  of  his  public  career  than 
he  had  ever  conceived  any  human  being  could  suf- 
fer. And  he  suffered  none  the  less  because  he  rel- 
ished his  opening  vistas,  and  he  suffered  without 
renouncing  any  one  of  his  ambitions  now  so  well 
within  his  reach.  Everything  that  he  had  desired 
seemed  to  be  tumbling  into  his  hands.  He  was 
to  be  a  member  of  Parliament  before  the  autumn, 
for  Lord  Drem's  nominee  was  to  retire  with  a 
baronetcy.  He  would  certainly  hold  office  when 


i$6  MRS.  LANCELOT 

he  was  returned;  he  was  bowed  to  at  the  clubs, 
elected  over  the  heads  of  other  candidates;  his 
opinion  was  asked;  he  went  everywhere  and  knew 
everything.  The  Duke  had  no  secrets  from  him; 
but  yet  he  believed  himself  betrayed.  Not  in  fact, 
of  course.  It  would  have  been  inconceivable  to 
him  to  connect  her  with  anything  like  a  scandal  — 
impossible  to  suppose,  dangerous  even  to  think  of. 
He  respected  himself;  his  security  from  tongues 
was  the  breath  of  his  nostrils.  And  it  would  be 
false  to  say  that  he  did  not  respect  her  also.  He 
did,  and  so  far  as  he  could  love  at  all,  he  loved 
Georgiana.  But  he  was  one  of  those  Englishmen 
who  believe  that  venerable  ceremonies  involve 
hearts  and  consciences.  She  was  his  by  legal  act, 
by  Church  sanction,  by  her  given  word  and  his 
acceptance.  These  laws  of  property  are  not 
broken:  that  is,  they  are  in  some  cases,  but  not 
in  his  own.  He  was  like  any  young,  healthy 
man  you  please  who  believes  that  people  die, 
without  understanding  that  he  too  is  one  of  such 
people. 

But  Georgiana's  favor  in  the  Duke's  eyes,  while 
it  enhanced  her  in  his  own,  seemed  to  make  her 
unattainable.  I  believe  that  at  any  given  moment 
of  this  time  he  prayed  for  a  miracle,  some  angel 
of  the  Lord  with  a  flaming  coal  which,  touching 
his  lips,  might  give  him  tongue  to  tell  Georgiana 
how  much  he  loved  her.  Absurd,  unhappy  man, 


REFLECTIONS  OF  CHARLES      157 

he  believed  that  he  loved  her  overwhelmingly  now, 
when  he  had  found  out  that  somebody  else  was 
attracted  by  her.  He  used  to  go  apart  at  some 
great  assembly  or  another,  and  with  clenched 
hands  and  drawn  face  agonize  in  secret.  He 
could  not  keep  his  eyes  off  her.  He  could  not  see 
her  surrounded  by  men  —  as  he  must  —  without 
wild  longing  to  snatch  her  out  of  all  this  splendor 
of  silk  and  jewels  and  uniforms,  ribbons  and  stars, 
snatch  her  away  to  some  dark  retreat,  and  there 
clasp  her  to  his  heart  and  kiss  her  to  death.  He 
believed  that  he  would  have  done  that,  did  not 
at  all  understand  that  what  he  really  loved,  what 
he  really  mourned  as  gone,  was  his  love  of  her, 
his  possession  of  her  love,  and  not  his  possession 
of  herself.  He  did  not  understand  himself  at 
all;  he  was  alarmed,  fearing  for  his  sanity,  had 
thoughts  of  consulting  a  physician.  But  so  it  was; 
and  then,  when  the  miserable  affair  was  over,  and 
he  had  her  by  his  side  in  their  carriage  —  for  she 
had  a  carriage  now  —  when  she,  fresh  and  happy 
from  a  little  success,  breathed  and  thrilled  by 
him,  and  he  felt  the  touch  of  her  arm,  or  even  the 
wooing  of  her  dear  affectionate  hand,  wretch  that 
he  was,  he  was  frozen,  tongue  and  brain,  heart  and 
every  member,  and  must  answer  coldly,  and  feel 
her  retreat  in  disappointment.  You  may  pity 
Charles,  who  had  not  made  himself,  and  could  not 
unmake;  but  you  may  well  spare  a  little  pity  for 


158  MRS.  LANCELOT 

her  too,  who  only  asked  to  be  happy  and  to  make 
him  happy. 

She  would  have  told  him  everything  if  he  would 
have  let  her,  or  if  there  had  been  anything  to  tell. 
But  there  was  not.  It  was  —  so  far  —  the  sim- 
plest business  in  the  world.  Her  new  friend 
had  found  out  that  she  could  listen,  and  so 
he  talked  to  her.  Devizes  was  unapproach- 
able by  men,  because  he  was  born  a  despot 
and  had  come  into  his  despotry.  He  was 
much  clearer-sighted,  had  fewer  illusions,  and 
much  more  decision  than  any  man  of  his  time  in 
England.  That  he  saw,  and  that  they  felt.  He 
had  no  prejudices  of  the  mind,  though  he  was  full 
of  instinctive  prejudices,  so  to  speak.  But  you 
could  not  get  the  better  of  a  man  who  had  no 
objection  to  a  beating.  It  was  nothing  to  him  to 
admit  himself  wrong.  He  would  do  it  in  public 
or  private  without  winking;  but  he  would  tell  you 
in  the  next  breath  that  he  intended  to  pursue  that 
very  course  —  if  he  could  —  because  he  chose  it 
so.  He  could  only  so  treat  his  fellow-men  because 
he  had  no  opinion  of  them,  and  if  he  never  con- 
fided in  one  of  them,  it 's  not  because  he  wished  to 
conceal  anything  from  them,  but  because  he  did  n't 
think  they  were  worth  either  confidence  or  distrust. 
That  threw  him  much  into  the  society  of  women, 
to  whom  he  was  also  attracted  by  their  sex.  He 
had  always  had  women  friends,  and  had  loved 


REFLECTIONS  OF  CHARLES      159 

much.  He  was,  probably,  incapable  of  a  single 
and  life-long  attachment.  He  loved  many  women, 
and  in  many  ways.  He  did  not,  as  yet,  love 
Georgiana,  but  he  knew  that  he  was  about  to  love 
her  —  and  there  was  no  earthly  hurry. 

Her  reticence  and  frugality  had  attracted  him 
from  the  first,  as  well  as  her  beauty,  which,  though 
it  was  very  real,  was  not  of  that  flaming  and  com- 
pelling sort  which  anybody  can  see.  It  was  quiet, 
sub-radiant  beauty,  like  that  of  a  snowdrop  in  a 
hedgerow.  It  needed  discernment,  and  that  he 
had.  Exactly  what  had  drawn  Gervase  Poore, 
the  young  man  of  virgin  heart,  had  drawn  this 
aging  man  of  ripe  knowledge  of  many  women. 
A  sweetly  poised  discretion,  a  delicate  deliberation, 
the  view  in  her  of  something  innately  pure,  a  quiet 
contentment  with  her  heart's  store,  and  a  candor 
like  that  of  a  mountain  spring.  Delicacy  was  im- 
plied in  every  line  and  tone  of  her.  She  was  no- 
where redundant.  Her  color  was  faint,  and  so 
was  the  thrust  of  her  bosom.  She  was  not  tall, 
she  was  not  short;  she  was  not  bold,  she  was  not 
shy.  She  laughed  rarely,  said  little  —  but,  by 
George,  she  was  a  good  listener !  That  was  what 
the  Duke  said  to  anybody  who  chose  to  hear  him. 
He  never  concealed  for  a  moment  that  he  liked 
to  be  with  her,  that  she  soothed  him  —  with  her 
fragrance  of  tea-roses,  and  kind  eyes  the  color  of 
violets.  What  Gervase  Poore  would  have  said  at 


160  MRS.  LANCELOT 

this  time  may  be  read  in  "  Nausithoe,"  which  was 
mounting  stanza  by  stanza  to  more  than  respect- 
able length.  Later  on,  when  her  parsimony  stung 
him  to  madness,  he  was  more  reprehensible. 
Some  of  his  poems  about  her — "To  Propertius, 
for  his  Lute,"  for  instance  —  pass  the  bounds,  and 
betray  an  irritation  which  may  be  natural  in  a  fine 
young  man,  but  is  not  the  less  regrettable. 

But  the  world  was,  as  it  still  is,  a  gross  feeder. 
If  the  dish  is  unspiced,  spice  must  be  shaken  in  at 
table.  If  innocence  exists  it  is  not  our  fault. 
Here  and  there,  already,  "  guilty  relationships  " 
were  read  into  what  I  have  explained  to  be  a  very 
simple  affair.  All  that  had  happened  so  far  was 
that  on  most  mornings  in  July  the  Duke,  attended 
by  a  groom,  rode  up  to  Georgiana's  door  at  half- 
past  twelve.  He  knocked  and  was  admitted  with- 
out question.  He  found  her  in  her  drawing-room, 
either  at  embroidery  or  flower-painting,  said, 
"  Good  morning,  my  dear,"  and  sat  by  her.  Then 
in  his  high-pitched,  clear  voice,  in  his  dry,  humor- 
ous-querulous way  he  began  to  talk  of  this  and 
that  —  of  his  correspondence,  of  his  King,  of  his 
party,  of  his  duchess,  of  his  sons  or  daughters  — 
and  she  to  incline  her  head  to  her  work  and  her 
ear  to  him.  At  times,  when  he  paused,  or  asked 
a  question,  she  would  lend  him  the  unfaltering 
glory  of  her  eyes  while  she  considered  the  problem 
put  to  her.  His  own,  which,  though  small,  were 


REFLECTIONS  OF  CHARLES      161 

of  the  brightest  China  blue,  would  in  the  mean- 
time meet  hers  without  a  suspicion  of  under- 
thought  or  an  inquiry  which  was  not  that  of  pure 
comradeship.  She  would  revolve  his  question  ac- 
cording to  her  simple  understanding;  he  would 
either  say,  "  I  'm  glad  you  agree  with  me. 
That 's  just  how  I  look  at  it.  Damned  impu- 
dence, you  know,"  or  if  he  disagreed  with  her  he 
would  quizz  her.  "  You  goose,"  he  would  call 
her.  "Don't  you  see  what  the  fellow's  at?" 
The  fellow  might  be  the  King,  or  his  footman. 

Georgiana  had  met  the  Duchess,  had  dined  at 
Wake  House  in  state  and  semi-state,  had  met  also 
the  two  sons,  that  Lord  Bernard  whom  Charles 
supplanted,  to  his  great  relief,  and  the  eldest  who 
was  called  Lord  Warbridge,  and  followed  the  pro- 
fession of  arms.  Each  of  these  was  older  than 
herself,  and  she  liked  them  both.  They  had  their 
father's  frankness  and  much  of  his  simplicity. 
Whatever  they  may  have  thought  they  were  ex- 
tremely pleasant  about  it.  Lord  Bernard  went 
so  far  as  to  say  that  she  had  done  him  a  good 
turn.  "  You  Ve  supplanted  me,  Mrs.  Lancelot, 
and  I  'm  sure  I  'm  very  much  obliged  to  you." 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  accusing  me,"  Georgiana 
said. 

"  Lord  bless  you,  no.  I  am  only  putting  the 
thing  in  a  nutshell.  Now  I  shall  go  my  own  way 
and  vote  for  the  Whigs.  While  I  was  his  secre- 


1 62  MRS.  LANCELOT 

tary  that  would  n't  have  done.  I  mean  that  it 
would  n't  have  done  for  me.  I  don't  suppose  that 
he  would  have  minded  in  the  least." 

Georgiana  laughingly  agreed,  and  Lord  Ber- 
nard shook  his  head  as  he  repeated  himself. 

"  You  Ve  made  an  honest  man  of  me,  Mrs. 
Lancelot.  I  wish  you  could  make  Warbridge 
one  too." 

"  Thank  you  for  nothing,"  cried  the  other 
young  lord.  "  There  's  nothing  the  matter  with 
me.  I  'd  rather  remain  as  I  am,  unless  Mrs. 
Lancelot  will  superintend  in  person." 

"  That  would  be  very  unpleasant,"  said  Lord 
Bernard.  "  Besides,  she  's  got  the  parent  on  her 
hands  just  now." 

"  Really,"  Georgiana  protested,  "  you  make  me 
too  responsible." 

"  You  '11  do  it,  you  '11  do  it,"  he  told  her,  and 
Lord  Warbridge  added,  "  He  '11  take  it  from  you. 
You  '11  do  him  lots  of  good.  I  believe  him  to  be 
quite  a  wicked  old  gentleman." 

All  this  was  very  amiable,  and  put  her  at  her 
ease.  But  she  had  very  little  to  say  to  the  Duch- 
ess, or  to  get  out  of  her  —  a  tall,  remote,  far- 
gazing  and  very  silent  woman,  who  passed  for 
proud.  She  was  not  so,  but  she  was  very  much 
bored.  She  had  never  made  the  slightest  attempt 
to  interfere  with  her  duke's  actions,  nor  he  to  en- 
gage her  affection.  He  had  married  her  because 


REFLECTIONS  OF  CHARLES      163 

he  had  undertaken  the  duty.  He  gave  her  fine 
children  and  then  washed  his  hands  of  her.  But 
they  occupied  the  same  house  and  met  at  dinner 
when  they  had  company  —  otherwise  they  did  not. 
They  never  went  to  the  same  parties  unless  there 
was  a  state  affair  toward.  It  was  at  one  or  two  of 
such  ceremonials  that  she  and  Georgiana  had  been 
together  in  the  room,  before  the  first  invitation  to 
Wake  House  was  despatched.  No  introduction 
was  made,  but  the  Duchess  knew  all  about  the 
Lancelots,  and  wished  them  no  manner  of  harm. 
Indeed,  she  liked  Georgiana's  looks,  and  told  one 
of  her  few  friends  that  she  did.  "  If  I  don't  mis- 
take," she  had  said,  "  Tom  has  got  hold  of  a  lady. 
What  he  '11  do  when  he  finds  that  out  will  be  inter- 
esting —  though  I  shan't  see  it."  She  believed 
herself  stricken  with  a  mortal  disease,  and  was 
right;  and  she  had  the  morbid  habit  of  measuring 
its  advance,  and  calculating  upon  it.  She  added 
after  a  moment.  "  But  there  will  be  something 
more  interesting  still  —  what  she  will  do  when  she 
finds  Tom  out." 

"My  dear,  the  Duke's  fascinations  — !"  her 
friend  had  suggested;  but  the  Duchess  would  have 
none  of  them. 

'  The  girl  has  a  head,  a  heart  and  a  conscience," 
said  she.  "  Tom  won't  get  any  of  them.  He 
flatters  women,  and  few  of  them  detect  it.  This 
one  will.  He  never  touches  a  heart,  because  he 


1 64  MRS.  LANCELOT 

has  none  of  his  own.  As  for  conscience !  He  's 
captured  her  imagination  just  now.  She  sees  her- 
self ministering  to  the  hero,  anointing  his  wounds, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it.  By  and  by  Tom  and  her 
stick  of  a  husband  will  let  her  slip  through  their 
fingers,  you  '11  see.  She  and  somebody  else  will 
be  soaring  abreast  while  they  are  beating  the 
bushes." 

A  curious  prophecy.  But  the  Duchess  had  the 
prevision  of  the  departing.  She  knew  that  she 
was  a  dying  woman. 

After  it,  she  sent,  of  her  own  accord,  an  invi- 
tation to  the  Lancelots  to  dine,  and  gave  the  Duke 
ample  warning  through  her  secretary.  She  never 
spoke  to  him  if  she  could  possibly  help  it.  The 
Duke  advised  Georgiana  to  accept  it,  "  like  a 
shot."  "  She  '11  be  pleased,  I  may  tell  you,  though 
she  '11  never  say  so.  I  don't  suppose  she  '11  speak 
two  words  to  you ;  but  you  '11  please  her.  She 
likes  you,  I  believe.  And  of  course  you  '11  please 
me.  You  know  that." 

"  We  will  certainly  accept,  Duke,"  said  Georgi- 
ana. 


XIV 

FRUITS   OF   VICTORY 

THE  Duchess,  with  "  I  told  you  so  "  as  her 
last  word,  died  in  November  when  Charles, 
with  Georgiana  to  help  him,  was  prosecuting  his 
canvass  in  Huntingdonshire ;  a  canvass,  as  Augusta 
Strangways  said,  which  only  needed  a  few  electors 
to  make  it  perfect.  There  were  in  fact  about  five- 
and-twenty  freeholders,  all  tenants  of  the  Drem 
estate  and  all  put  in  possession  of  their  duties  by 
a  letter  from  their  lord.  But  Charles  was  a  con- 
scientious candidate,  and  too  much  of  an  official 
to  omit  any  rule  of  the  game.  So  he  canvassed, 
and  his  ladies  canvassed;  so  he  made  very  dull 
speeches  to  farmers  and  their  hinds ;  and  when  his 
Whig  rival  came  down  in  a  coach  and  made  the 
best  of  a  bad  business  Charles  gave  him  a  dinner 
and  made  more  speeches,  in  which  he  referred  to 
him  as  "  my  honorable  and  gallant  opponent,"  in 
his  best  House  of  Commons  manner.  In  the  very 
middle  of  the  fun  a  messenger  came  down  riding 
post  with  two  letters,  one  to  him,  one  to  Georgi- 
ana, both  from  the  Duke. 

Charles   was   summoned   to   him,    point-blank. 
165 


1 66  MRS.  LANCELOT 

"  Dear  Charles,  my  wife  is  dead.  Come  up  to 
London  and  set  me  at  liberty  from  a  deal  of  hate- 
ful business. —  D."  Hers  was  longer,  but  no  less 
peremptory.  Charles,  aware  that  it  had  come 
and  conscious  of  its  tenor,  chose  to  ignore  it. 

He  entered  her  bedroom,  after  knocking,  where 
she  was  dressing  for  dinner,  his  note  in  his  hand. 
He  stood  behind  her  where  she  sat  with  her  hands 
to  her  hair. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  love,  for  disturbing  you 
—  but  my  news  is  serious  and  important.  I  may 
have  to  leave  in  a  few  minutes.  The  Duchess  is 


no  more." 


She  turned  her  face  to  him  and  her  candid  eyes. 
"I  know,"  she  said;  "he  has  told  me.  I  have 
had  a  letter." 

It  was  part  of  his  dreary  comedy  to  raise  his 
eyebrows.  "You  have  heard  also?  Ah!  She 
was  a  sad  sufferer.  Poor  woman !  And  he  must 
feel  it  too  —  after  so  many  years.  More  than 
thirty-five.  A  strange  union  —  want  of  sympathy 
on  both  sides.  Well!  it's  not  for  us  to  judge 
them.  I  fear,  however,  that  I  must  leave  you." 

She  had  now  returned  her  face  to  the  glass,  and 
was  looking  at  herself  as  she  spoke.  She  was 
careful  not  to  watch  his  reflection  behind  hers. 
"  He  wants  me  to  go  to  him.  He  thinks  I  can 
be  of  use." 

Lancelot  had  been  prepared  for  that.     He  had 


FRUITS  OF  VICTORY  167 

schooled  himself  for  it.  He  answered  coldly. 
"  It  is  not  for  me  to  advise.  Naturally  he  would 
wish  it,  and  naturally  you  would  go  if  it  were 
.  .  .  but  you  will  probably  decide  that  in  the 
circumstances  it  would  hardly  be  ...  Perhaps  in 
a  few  days'  time."  It  was  true  that  Georgiana 
had  been  prepared  also.  It  is  true  that  she  had 
felt,  behind  her  desire  to  comfort  her  friend,  that 
she  ought  to  wait  some  certain  time.  Neverthe- 
less she  was  put  out. 

But  she  showed  little  sign  of  it.  Her  brow  was 
quite  clear.  "  I  am  sorry.  It  would  have  been 
natural  to  me  to  have  gone  with  you.  I  should 
have  been  quite  ready.  But  I  see  that  you  would 
rather  not.  I  will  write  to  him,  of  course,  and 
give  you  the  letter." 

This  was  not  exactly  what  Charles  wished.  "  I 
fancied  that  your  opinion  would  coincide  with 
mine.  The  Duchess  had  never  been  ...  I 
hoped  you  would  see  that  — " 

She  answered  quietly  —  but  he  could  detect 
asperity.  "  I  see  perfectly.  I  will  write.  Later 
on  I  will  propose  myself  if  he  still  wants  me. 
Have  you  told  the  servants  to  pack  your  luggage  ? 
And  the  horse?  You  will  ride,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Certainly,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  ride.  Jonathan 
can  follow  with  my  portmanteau.  Riding  post,  I 
shall  be  at  Wake  House  before  breakfast.  I  must 
see  Wheeler  about  the  nomination  —  and  all  must 


1 68  MRS.  LANCELOT 

go  as  it  may  with  me.  I  hardly  think  we  can  lose 
the  seat.  Wheeler  will  explain  that  plain  duty 
calls  me  away." 

She  assured  him  that  she  would  make  all  proper 
arrangements  with  his  agent.  Then  he  left  her, 
and  she  immediately  wrote  her  letter  to  the  Duke. 
It  was  delivered  unsealed  into  his  hands,  but  he 
did  not  take  advantage  of  his  rights.  In  half  an 
hour  more  he  was  on  the  road,  leaving  her  un- 
kissed  behind. 

Augusta  commented  with  her  usual  frankness 
upon  the  events  of  the  evening.  "  It  seems  to  me 
that  you  have  two  husbands,  my  dear.  That  must 
be  uncomfortable  when  they  want  you  to  do  differ- 
ent things."  She  added,  "  I  suppose  they  always 
would." 

Georgiana,  folding  her  thoughts  within  her 
bosom,  as  it  were,  with  her  crossed  arms  and  hands 
clasped  to  her  shoulders,  pored  into  the  fire.  "  I 
sometimes  think  that  I  have  none,"  she  said. 
Then  a  sigh  escaped  her,  and  she  looked  unhappy. 
Augusta  eyed  her  narrowly. 

"  If  baby  had  lived,"  she  said,  "  you  would  n't 
have  cared." 

She  raised  her  brows,  but  not  her  head.  "  Per- 
haps not.  It  is  getting  rather  difficult.  I  have 
done  my  best." 

"For  Charles?"  cried  her  sister.  "I  should 
think  so.  I  suppose  Charles  is  very  proud." 


FRUITS  OF  VICTORY  169 

Georgiana  gloomed.  "  He  won't  talk.  He 
won't  tell  me  anything.  He  never  has." 

"  He  can't,  I  believe,"  Augusta  said.  "  That 's 
dreadful  for  him." 

Georgiana,  herself  more  often  tongue-tied  than 
not,  expanded  a  little  now.  "  The  Duke  wants 
me.  I  shall  go  as  soon  as  I  can.  He  has  a 
right  to  me  —  if  I  can  help  him." 

Augusta  wondered.  "  A  right  to  you !  Well, 
perhaps  any  man  who  wants  one  has  a  right.  But 
will  Charles  like  it?" 

"  Charles  told  me  to  be  kind  to  him  —  from  the 
very  first.  He  wanted  it  extremely.  He  was 
always  talking  about  it." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Augusta  said.  "  But  what  did  he 
mean  by  *  kind  '?  And  what  do  you  mean  by  it? 
And  what  does  the  Duke  mean?  Have  you 
thought  of  all  this,  darling?  Supposing  that  you 
all  meant  different  things?  I  know  what  poets 
mean  by  it,"  she  added  rather  shrewdly. 

"  The  Duke  is  very  fond  of  me,  of  course," 
Georgiana  reflected  (but  aloud).  "I  can't  help 
seeing  it.  He  likes  to  talk  to  me.  It  has  got  to 
be  necessary  to  him.  And  when  he  can't  talk  he 
writes.  He  writes  every  week,  a  sort  of  journal. 
But  I  assure  you  — 

"  Don't  assure  me,  dearest.     Assure  Charles." 

"  Charles  is  most  unreasonable.  He  is  always 
saying  that  he  trusts  me  —  and  then  not  doing  it." 


1 7o  MRS.  LANCELOT 

"  I  am  sure  that  Charles  trusts  you,  darling." 

"  I  should  believe  that,"  Georgiana  said,  "  if  he 
did  n't  talk  so  much  about  it." 

"Why  doesn't  Charles  resign?"  asked  the 
really  very  simple  Augusta. 

"  Because  he  does  n't  want  to,  my  dear,"  an- 
swered Georgiana,  no  less  simply.  "  He  is  con- 
sumed by  ambition.  It 's  the  breath  of  his  life." 
There  was  a  pause  between  the  sisters.  "  Poor 
Charles !  "  It  was  the  wife  who  spoke.  "  It 's 
so  hopeless.  He  will  never  be  more  than  an 
official." 

"  Is  it  not  early  to  predict?  "  Augusta  objected. 
"  You  see,  he  has  only  just  ceased  to  be  one." 
Georgiana,  white  and  vehement,  replied, 

"  He  has  n't  ceased.  He  never  will  cease. 
Do  you  think  that  an  ambition  can  be  gratified  by 
help  from  others?  He  fixed  his  eye  on  the  Duke 
from  the  beginning.  And  when  the  Duke  saw  me 
—  and  liked  me  —  he  fixed  his  eye  on  me."  She 
drooped  now;  from  a  quivering  shaft  fired  by  the 
flames  she  sank  to  ash  as  her  fire  died  down. 
"  Poor  Charles !  I  would  do  anything  in  the 
world  —  but  it  is  quite  hopeless." 

Augusta  peered,  shadowing  her  face  from  the 
fire  with  her  hand.  "  Are  you  still  in  love  with 
Charles?"  But  Georgiana,  whose  eyes  were 
closed,  did  not  answer.  Augusta  was  so  dread- 
fully direct. 


FRUITS  OF  VICTORY  171 

Charles  Lancelot,  Esquire,  was  duly  returned 
for  the  borough  of  Saint  Lo  by  a  sufficient  major- 
ity, and  then  Georgiana  went  to  London.  He 
received  her  with  affection  and  thanked  her  for 
the  help  she  had  been.  The  Duke  was  at  Wake 
House,  quite  composed,  he  thought,  but  alone. 
The  ladies  (his  two  married  daughters)  had  been 
gone  about  a  week.  Lord  Warbridge  was  at 
Mortimer  Revel,  Lord  Bernard  in  Paris,  Lord 
Henry  had  returned  to  Oxford.  The  Duke 
talked  of  going  up  to  Knottingley,  a  place  of  his 
in  the  North.  It  would  be  necessary  for  Charles 
to  be  on  the  road  between  that  and  London  pretty 
regularly  up  to  the  opening  of  the  session.  By 
the  by,  he  had  a  note  for  Georgiana  —  from  the 
Duke. 

He  slowly  produced  it  from  his  breast  pocket. 
Now  she  had  been  in  the  house  since  five.  They 
dined  at  seven,  and  it  was  now  a  quarter  to  eight. 
She  was  annoyed,  but  said  nothing.  The  note  was 
sealed.  The  Duke  had  treated  Charles  like  a 
messenger. 

Georgiana  broke,  and  read.  It  was  very  short. 
"  So  you  are  here  at  last.  Look  for  me  at  noon 
as  usual. —  D."  Her  head  was  bent  over  it,  the 
paper  fluttered  in  her  thin  fingers  long  after  she 
had  mastered  it.  She  looked  at  it  while  she 
thought.  Should  she  or  should  she  not  show  it  to 
Charles?  If  she  did,  it  would  look  as  if  he  had  a 


172  MRS.  LANCELOT 

right  to  her  letters ;  if  she  did  not  he  would  be  hurt. 
And  then  —  had  he  not  a  right?  Very  candid 
with  herself  always,  she  thought  that  he  had.  So 
she  got  up  and  brought  it  over  to  him.  She  put  it 
in  his  hands  and  stood  while  he  read  it. 

"  You  see  what  he  says?  " 

"  Yes,  I  see,  my  love." 

Her  irritation,  which  had  been  rising  since  the 
delivery  of  the  note,  now  broke  out  against  his 
impassivity. 

'  You  can  see  that  he  is  not  happy.  You  can 
see  that  I  have  not  been  kind  to  him.  I  ought  to 
have  come  up  sooner.  I  wish  you  would  be  frank 
with  me." 

He  made  no  answer.     She  continued. 

"  He  has  been  a  good  friend  to  us.  He  has 
done  exactly  what  you  always  told  me  you  desired 
him  to  do.  How  far  I  myself  have  had  any  share 
in  it  you  are  able  to  judge.  I  did  not  seek  his  ac- 
quaintance. It  was  you  who  presented  him.  I 
have  always  done  what  you  wished  —  and  I  do 
think  I  have  succeeded.  If  I  am  any  comfort  to 
him  I  am  proud  to  be  so.  I  am  certainly  proud 
of  his  friendship.  But  for  some  reason  or  another 
the  moment  you  got  what  you  wished  for  from 
him  you  began  to  grudge  our  acquaintance.  It 
would  have  been  better  if  you  had  not  introduced 
him  to  me  if  you  are  to  be  made  unhappy  by  it." 

Then  he  protested,  but  feebly.     "  I  assure  you 


FRUITS  OF  VICTORY  173 

that  I  am  not  unhappy.  I  cannot  be  surprised  that 
he  enjoys  your  society,  seeing  that  I  discovered, 
long  before  he  did,  how  enjoyable  it  was." 

"  If  you  really  think  me  enjoyable,"  she  re- 
torted with  some  heat,  "  it  would  be  more  agree- 
able to  me  if  you  sometimes  revealed  your 
thought." 

"  My  love,  my  love,"  said  the  poor  gentleman, 
"  you  are  saying  terrible  things  to  me." 

"  They  are  more  painful  to  me  to  feel  than  they 
can  be  to  you  to  hear,"  she  replied.  "  You  act  as 
if  you  thought  I  was  doing  you  a  wrong.  You 
know  quite  well  that  I  am  not."  He  rose  and 
paced  the  floor,  his  hands  knotted  behind  his  back. 

"  You  mistake  me,  I  assure  you,  dearest. 
Wrong  and  you  are  not  conceivable  partners.  Let 
us  not  discuss  these  things.  They  are  painful  to 
us  both.  I  have  always  admitted  the  service 
which  your  attraction  for  the  Duke  — " 

She  stopped  him.  "  I  beg  you  not  to  consider 
me  as  a  lure.  You  introduced  him  to  me;  he 
finds  pleasure  in  my  society,  and  I  am  proud  to  be 
his  friend.  I  don't  think  that  you  realize  what 
you  are  suggesting  when  you  talk  of  my  attractive- 
ness." 

He  was  greatly  disturbed.  "  You  persist  in 
misunderstanding  me.  You  are  very  unfair. 
Let  us  stop  this  discussion."  He  took  her  hand. 
"  Georgiana,  dearest  wife,  let  us  not  wrangle  over 


174  MRS.  LANCELOT 

this  painful  matter — "  But  she  snatched  her 
hand  away. 

"  Painful!"  she  said.  "Why  should  it  be 
painful?  Here  is  a  friend  of  yours  and  of  mine 
in  trouble.  He  writes  that  he  is  coming  to  see  me, 
and  I  tell  you  that  I  blame  myself  for  not  having 
gone  to  him  earlier  —  and  you  talk  of  painful  mat- 
ters! You  show  me  by  that  what  your  feelings 
are.  Let  me  ask  you  fairly,  Do  you  wish  me  to 
refuse  to  see  him  when  he  comes?  " 

"  No,  no,  my  love  —  no,  no.  God  knows  that 
I  do  not." 

God  knew  what  He  knew.  Yet  if  Charles 
could  have  said  yes  to  his  wife's  question,  and  by 
so  doing  not  have  laid  the  ax  to  the  root  of  his 
career,  he  would,  I  believe,  have  said  it.  But  I 
don't  know.  Self-esteem  is  a  kittle  thing.  By 
saying  yes  he  would  have  confessed  to  his  fears, 
and  by  confessing  to  his  fears  he  would  have  re- 
vealed them  to  himself.  That  he  dared  not  do. 

The  evening  ended  in  silence.  Each  of  them 
read.  But  Georgiana  wrote  a  note  to  the  Duke 
and  gave  it  to  the  footman  to  put  in  the  post.  At 
ten  o'clock  she  kissed  Charles  on  the  forehead  and 
retired.  Directly  she  was  gone  he  put  down  his 
book  and  began  to  pace  the  room.  He  was  alone 
with  himself.  He  stood  for  some  moments  irres- 
olute, looking  at  her  miniature,  which  stood  on 
the  mantel-shelf.  It  showed  her  in  a  high-waisted 


FRUITS  OF  VICTORY  175 

white  gown,  and  he  read  into  it  her  divine  far- 
gazing  eyes,  her  late  beautiful  vehemence,  and 
that  forth-right  direction,  that  unerring  candor 
which  he  both  dreaded  and  adored.  A  wave  of 
great  longing  came  over  him,  and  from  the  mo- 
ment that  he  hid  his  face  in  his  arm  he  knew  what 
he  would  do.  When  he  raised  himself  again  he 
was  a  beaten  man.  He  looked  up  at  his  watch. 
He  might  go  up  now.  He  did.  He  stood  for 
some  heart-beating  moments  at  her  door,  then 
knocked  softly.  She  replied  at  once.  He  opened 
and  went  in. 


BOOK  II 
EGERIA'S  DISTRACTIONS 


BOOK  II 
CHAPTER  I 

EQUIVOCAL   ESTABLISHMENT 

IN  the  late  spring  and  summer  of  1 8 —  and  on- 
wards for  two  seasons  or  more,  among  the 
walkers  in  the  Row  between  ten  and  twelve  there 
would  be  few  fine  days  when  you  would  not  have 
seen  the  sharp,  close-buttoned  form  of  the  Duke 
of  Devizes,  and  upon  his  arm  the  small  hand  of 
her  who  was  known  as  his  Egerla,  by  the  mali- 
cious as  his  Aspasia.  He  the  ruddy  and  she  the 
pale,  he  the  precise  of  eye  and  she  the  thoughtful, 
they  were  the  remarked  of  all,  as  much  for  their 
fame  as  for  their  solitary  habit.  For  though  uni- 
versally saluted,  though  his  forefinger  was  forever 
at  the  brim  of  his  hat,  and  her  inclinations  of  the 
head  as  frequent  and  more  gracious,  they  stopped 
for  nobody,  and  spoke  to  nobody,  but  paced  their 
allotted  number  of  times  to  and  fro  under  the  elms 
about  the  Achilles  statue  and  then,  at  an  exact 
hour,  crossed  the  road  and  were  understood  to  re- 
turn to  Wake  House.  Monsieur  de  Talleyrand, 

179 


i8o  MRS.  LANCELOT 

who  knew  what  this  sort  of  thing  meant  as  well  as 
anybody  in  Europe,  who  was  often  in  Mrs.  Lance- 
lot's drawing-room  at  Wake  House,  and  never 
failed  to  kiss  her  hand  at  a  ball,  met  them  daily 
upon  their  constitutional,  but  never  intruded  him- 
self. Lord  Petersham,  fearfully  scarfed,  Sir 
Lumley  Skeffington,  nested  deep  in  whiskers,  and 
Poodle  Byng,  were  among  the  walkers.  Lord 
Drem,  a  fine  red-whiskered  dandy,  who  admired 
her  enormously,  and  said  so,  and  Pink  Mordaunt, 
fat  and  exquisite,  who  adored  her  and  pretended 
that  he  did  n't,  were  two  other  frequenters  of  the 
Row,  and  contented  themselves,  like  the  rest  of  the 
world,  with  salutations  from  afar.  Lord  Drem 
said  that,  with  his  cousin  Miss  Chambre,  who 
had  never  married,  she  was  the  most  loveworthy 
woman  he  had  ever  known ;  but  Hermia  Chambre 
was  all  afire,  he  said  (though  never  for  him) 
and  Georgiana  Lancelot  was  ice  to  the  world. 
Nobody  seriously  thought  that  she  could  love  the 
Puke,  though  his  feelings  were  undisguised,  and 
it  was  supposed  that  she  was  kind  to  him.  If 
she  was  not  kind,  then  the  menage  at  Wake 
House  was  scarcely  conceivable.  For,  said  the 
gossips,  she  and  Charles  Lancelot  had  not  much 
more  than  a  bowing  acquaintance  in  any  case; 
and  if  the  Duke  was  at  arm's-length  on  that  ac- 
count, then  you  had  the  case  of  a  young  and  beau- 
tiful woman  deeply  loved  by  two  men,  neither  of 


EQUIVOCAL  ESTABLISHMENT     181 

whom  could  come  at  her.  It  was  a  clear  case, 
said  old  Talleyrand,  for  a  tertium  quid.  Such  an 
one  was  believed  to  exist;  but  so  far  he  existed  a 
priori,  or  was  living  on  air  —  for  he  had  never 
been  seen.  Air  too  was  apparently  the  lady's 
food:  she  ate  hardly  anything  else,  and  certainly 
she  was  very  thin.  Noticeably  so;  yet  none  de- 
nied her  beauty  and  a  slim  grace  exquisitely  ex- 
pressed by  her  clothes.  It  was  a  day  when  clothes 
outlined  the  figure,  a  day  for  slim  women,  a  day 
for  Mrs.  Lancelot,  whose  figure  was  likened  to 
the  warmth  of  an  early  spring  morning,  suggestive 
of  beauty  rather  than  expressive  of  it,  wraith-like, 
ethereal,  with  a  latent  warmth  tenderly  veiled. 
Respected,  admired,  not  loved,  she  was  something 
of  a  mystery  —  or  she  would  have  been  if  the 
tone  of  her  constant  companion  could  have  sup- 
ported mystery. 

She  and  her  husband  had  now  been  inmates  of 
Wake  House  for  a  year;  but  it  had  taken  a  year 
from  the  date  of  the  Duchess's  death  to  get  them 
there.  This  was  not  the  Duke's  fault,  who  had 
broached  the  notion  the  first  morning  he  called 
upon  her  after  his  bereavement  —  a  morning 
when  she,  moved  by  genuine  pity  and  affection, 
had  allowed  him  to  put  hands  upon  her,  to  put  his 
arm  about  her,  and  had  suffered  his  lips  upon  her 
brow.  The  tears  had  been  in  her  eyes  — •  it  had 
been  a  melting  moment.  "  My  dear,  you  Ve  been 


1 82  MRS.  LANCELOT 

an  angel  to  me ;  and  now  you  shall  be  my  guardian 
angel."  That  was  how  the  Duke  had  put  it  — 
moved  as  none  had  ever  seen  him  but  her.  She 
had  leaned  to  him,  half  embraced,  and  her  head 
had  rested  on  his  shoulder  as  she  listened  to  his 
hint;  but  then  she  had  quietly  withdrawn  herself, 
and  he  had  not  been  able  to  get  her  so  tender  again. 
Without  an  apparent  effort  on  her  part,  and  in 
spite  of  every  effort  he  could  make,  short  of  de- 
liberate wooing  (which  she  had  the  skill  to  pre- 
vent), she  had  resumed  their  old  footing  of 
intimacy  without  a  grain  of  passion,  and  then  she 
had  explained  that  "  for  reason  good  "  she  could 
not  consider  any  such  matter  as  change  of  lodging 
yet  awhile.  "  I  shall  see  you  nearly  every  day," 
she  told  him,  "  and  when  you  open  your  house 
again  you  shall  invite  us,  if  you  please.  But  I 
can't  come  and  look  after  you  yet,  dear  friend.  I 
am  quite  clear  about  that." 

"  I  suppose  Charles  won't  have  it,"  the  Duke 
had  said,  with  his  usual  directness.  "  Charles,  let 
me  tell  you,  is  an  ass.  He  don't  know  me  — 
and  that's  no  wonder;  but  he  don't  know  you 
either  —  and  that  beats  cock-fighting."  But  he 
had  made  no  further  effort  to  persuade  her. 
"  Have  your  own  way,  my  dear;  I  believe  you  're 
happier  so.  But  I  'm  a  pig-headed  fellow,  you 
know.  I've  got  you  in  my  head  —  if  nowhere 
else  —  and  it  would  want  an  operation  to  get  you 


EQUIVOCAL  ESTABLISHMENT     183 

out  again.  You  don't  want  that,  I  hope?  You 
don't  want  me  trepanned?  Very  good,  then  be 
so  kind  as  to  tell  your  servant  to  let  me  in  when 
I  call." 

So  it  ended  for  the  time,  and  he  served  a  year 
of  probation  faithfully.  There  were  lapses,  of 
course.  The  flesh  raged.  He  told  her  that  he 
was  n't  meant  to  be  a  monk,  and  gave  her  to 
understand  how  little  of  one  he  was.  But  he 
hardly  missed  a  day  of  her  company,  and  toward 
the  end  of  his  year  of  mourning,  visitors  to  Wake 
House  expected  to  see  her  as  certainly  as  their 
host. 

At  the  end  of  a  full  year  —  to  a  day  —  the 
Lancelots  moved  into  their  new  quarters,  without 
any  audible  murmurs  from  Charles,  who,  consid- 
ering he  was  now  principal  secretary  and  as  good 
as  promised  a  lordship  of  the  Treasury,  could  not 
really  say  very  much.  The  Lancelots  occupied 
a  wing  of  the  great  house,  with  their  own  dining 
and  drawing-room,  a  boudoir  for  her  overlooking 
the  park,  a  library  for  him,  two  bedrooms  with 
dressing-rooms,  a  maid's  room  and  "  the  usual 
offices."  It  was  very  comfortable.  One  thing 
Charles  noticed,  but  as  his  wont  was,  said  nothing. 
In  Smith  Square  they  had  never  given  up  their 
original  habit  of  the  nuptial  couch.  Here  that 
had  been  provided  against,  and  naturally  by  her. 
Now,  how  had  this  been  arranged?  To  whom 


1 84  MRS.  LANCELOT 

had  she  expressed  the  wish?  Had  she,  indeed, 
expressed  it  at  all,  or  was  it  possible  that  the 
Duke  —  ?  Was  it  a  coup  de  main?  Here  were 
questions  for  a  husband. 

Whatever  it  was,  whoever  had  decreed,  it  was 
accepted  and  adhered  to.  When  Augusta,  who 
was  now  married  to  a  Mr.  Fitzowen,  came  to 
visit  her  sister,  the  young  couple  were  guests  of 
the  Duke,  and  there  was  no  question  of  shifting 
quarters  within  the  Lancelot  appartement.  There 
was  room  and  to  spare  in  that  huge  house. 
Charles,  after  his  wont,  suffered  acutely,  but  said 
nothing.  He  dared  not  face  a  rebuff;  he  dared 
not  touch  upon  the  subject;  but  he  hovered  about 
it  and  about,  and  loved  her  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  or  thought  that  he  did.  He  was  out- 
raged; his  sense  of  property,  sense  of  law  were 
offended.  He  felt  deprived,  abandoned,  and 
chilly  to  the  winds  of  the  world.  Feeling  so,  he 
looked  desperately  back  —  to  the  days  when  with- 
out falter  or  question  she  had  been  his;  he  cen- 
tered his  affections  there  and  longed  unutterably 
to  prove  her  what  she  had  been  then.  If  this  was 
love,  he  felt  it  without  a  doubt,  and  the  prick  of  it 
was  so  sharp  that  he  lost  all  sense  of  the  resent- 
ment which  a  man  might  naturally  feel  whose 
wife,  without  consultation,  alters  domestic  ar- 
rangements which  the  law  of  England  sanctions 
and  defends.  A  little  vehemence  would  have 


EQUIVOCAL  ESTABLISHMENT     185 

helped  him;  if  he  had  thundered,  he  would  have 
cleared  the  air.  But  he  could  not  do  that. 
Ruthless  critic  of  himself,  his  greatest  torment 
would  have  been  that  he  had  placed  himself  at  the 
mercy  of  that  merciless  judge,  that  he  had  ad- 
mitted to  himself  that  his  wife  was  doing  him  a 
wrong.  And  then  he  ran  the  gamut  of  feeling; 
first  offended,  then  memory-stricken,  now  he  be- 
gan to  desire  her  possession,  and  so  conceal  his 
desire,  first  of  all,  from  himself.  The  miserable 
Charles! 

The  fact  very  simply  was  that  Georgiana 
had  by  now  discovered  two  things:  that  she  did 
not  love  and  never  had  loved  her  husband,  and 
that  the  Duke  was  in  love  with  her.  Now  the 
Duke  in  love  was  a  different  person  from  Charles 
in  love.  Charles  in  love  expected  everything  and 
offered  nothing.  It  would  have  been  inconceiv- 
able to  Charles  that  he,  after  marriage,  should 
court  his  wife.  Such  a  derogation  from  the  mar- 
ital rights  would  have  opened  a  wound  in  his  self- 
esteem  which  would  have  bled  forever.  He 
would  have  died  of  a  decline.  He  would  have 
seen  himself  despicable,  and  that  would  have 
slain  him  —  a  kind  of  suicide.  For  to  his  sort  it 
does  n't  matter  how  many  people  see  the  dero- 
gation; it  is  enough  that  you  see  it  yourself;  and 
to  do  that  one  pair  of  eyes  will  make  you  a  look- 
ing-glass. But  the  Duke  was  another  kind  of 


1 86  MRS.  LANCELOT 

lover.  He  could  bide  his  time,  he  could  deny  him- 
self anything  for  the  beloved,  but  not  to  see  that 
which  he  longed  for  given  elsewhere.  She  had 
known  from  the  very  first  that  her  relations  with 
Charles  must  change  if  she  were  to  go  into  Wake 
House.  Then  why  did  she  go  thither?  My  be- 
lief is  that  she  went  partly  because  she  wanted  to 
—  the  idea  of  being  at  hand  to  look  after  this  no- 
ble and  true  friend  captivated  her  imagination ;  and 
secondly,  I  believe  that  she  had  already  found 
Charles  as  a  lover  insupportable.  It  may  be  that 
she  had  begun  to  have  ideas  of  her  own  on  that 
matter.  I  have  no  means  of  knowing,  but  those 
are  my  suggestions. 

She  knew  now,  at  any  rate,  that  Charles  loved 
her.  That  showed  an  advance  in  her  realizations. 
It  could  be  told,  to  one  who  had  eyes  to  read,  by  a 
thousand  little  signs.  But  she  thanked  him  for 
nothing,  for  she  was  clear-sighted  enough  also  to 
see  that  it  had  never  been  in  him  to  do  so  until 
she  had  ceased  to  need  him;  that  what  he  loved 
really  was  himself  bereaved.  Here  she  was  un- 
fair, for  Charles  had  always  loved  her  after  his 
complacent  fashion,  and  loved  her  no  more  nor 
no  less  now  than  then  —  though  expressing  his 
love  according  to  what  he  got  in  return.  When 
he  got  abundance  from  her  he  went  his  way  at 
ease;  now  that  he  got  little  he  hugged  his  lean 
sides  and  shivered  in  the  cold.  But  however  that 


EQUIVOCAL  ESTABLISHMENT     187 

may  be,  she  had  nothing  for  him  but  wifely  atten- 
tions, which  were  his  to  a  punctilio. 

Hers  was  an  equivocal  position,  even  for  an 
age  when  equivoque  was  winked  at.  Nobody 
could  have  supported  it  better.  Things  were  said 
to  her,  in  all  good  intent,  which,  if  she  had  under- 
stood the  art  of  the  leer,  might  have  made  her 
heart  stand  still.  Petitions  were  made  for  her 
"  influence  " — "  A  word  to  the  Duke,  dear  Mrs. 
Lancelot !  a  word  from  you !  "  Her  simplicity 
saved  her,  and  her  eyes  remained  perfectly  clear 
of  sight.  She  was  not  so  much  indifferent  to  the 
world's  opinion  as  ignorant  of  it,  incapable  of 
seeing  it. 

Was  she  happy  or  not?  I  think  she  was  one 
of  those  women  trained  to  duty  to  whom  happi- 
ness means  contentment  and  ease  of  mind.  Hap- 
piness in  the  sense  of  ecstasy,  of  conscious 
communion  with  the  spirit  of  Life,  had  never 
fallen  her  way.  To  most  women  that  comes  by 
love,  and  she  had  never  loved.  Charles  Lancelot 
came  a-wooing  before  she  was  out  of  the  nursery, 
and  we  have  seen  how  assumptions  ruled.  He 
had  assumed  himself  desirable,  she  had  assumed 
herself  desired.  Then  duty  stepped  in  with  the 
command,  "Desire  him  who  desires  thee;  love 
him,  honor,  obey."  The  Duke  came  next  —  a 
god  out  of  a  clear  sky,  with  friendship  proffered. 
Duty  said,  "  My  dear,  accept  it  gratefully.  He, 


i88  MRS.  LANCELOT 

the  world-famous,  selects  you,  the  little  unknown. 
See  how  you  will  advance  your  husband;  see  what 
a  glory  to  yourself!  "  She  gave  his  Grace  all  that 
she  had  to  give  —  all  that  she  had  not  given  over 
to  Charles,  and  that  included,  although  she  knew  it 
not,  a  portion  of  her  heart.  Loyalty  she  gave 
him,  admiration,  and  the  tender  thought  which  all 
women  can  give,  a  portion  to  each,  to  everybody 
who  comes  to  them  with  love.  He,  the  trench- 
ant, conquering  male,  with  his  clear  eye  and  his 
blunt  appraisement,  wanted  more  than  compan- 
ionship, and  on  one  occasion  showed  it  her. 
Practically,  on  one  occasion  only.  There  came  a 
day  —  it  was  when  she  had  been  in  Wake  House 
a  month  or  two  —  when  she  met  her  danger  face 
to  face  and  braved  it.  (Nobody  knew,  least  of 
all  Charles,  how  neatly  and  how  exquisitely  she 
triumphed.) 

It  was  Sunday  evening;  the  lamp  was  lit,  and 
she  was  at  her  desk  letter-writing.  The  Duke 
came  in;  nodded  greetings  passed  between  the 
pair  of  friends.  He  went  over  to  the  fire  and 
stood  with  his  back  to  it,  warming  himself,  look- 
ing curiously,  sharply  at  her,  with  brows  knitted 
over  his  blue  eyes.  She  was  conscious  of  his 
glance,  looked  up  guardedly  once  or  twice  from 
her  paper  and  found  it  still  upon  her.  She  ig- 
nored it  as  long  as  she  could,  and  showed  nothing 
of  her  mind.  Her  quill  whistled  on  its  way;  she 


EQUIVOCAL  ESTABLISHMENT     189 

finished,  sealed  and  directed.  Finally,  she  had  to 
face  him. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  hard?  "  she  asked 
him,  smiling  and  inclined  to  blush.  He  continued 
his  scrutiny,  smiling. 

"  Do  I  offend  you  ?  It 's  difficult  to  see  any- 
thing else  in  this  room." 

She  looked  about.  It  was  all  very  pretty:  an 
oval  room  in  white,  with  panels  of  pale  blue  silk. 
"  I  should  have  thought  there  were  many  better 
things  to  see.  It 's  sweetly  pretty.  I  love  my 


room." 


"  Glad  you  like  it,  my  dear." 

"  Of  course  I  like  it.  You  did  it  for  me,  to 
begin  with." 

"  Bless  you!  "  he  scoffed,  nodding  his  head  in 
mock  scorn.  "  How  many  tomfooleries  would 
I  not  have  uttered  to  get  you  here!  But  you 
were  very  difficult."  She  appealed. 

"  Oh,  no,  Duke,  really  I  was  not." 

"  Oh,  but  you  were,  missy.  You  hummed  and 
ha'ed.  Now  Charles  was  all  agog." 

She  knew  this  to  be  very  untrue.  "  Agog  " 
was  not  the  word  for  either  of  them.  She  rose 
and  came  slowly  to  the  fire  —  under  that  other 
fire  of  his  keen  eyes.  Her  effort  was  to  divert 
the  current  by  degrees  —  to  do  so  without  seem- 
ing effort. 

"  I    have    always    wanted    to    ask  you  —  Is 


190  MRS.  LANCELOT 

Charles,  are  we  —  of  any  real  use  to  you?  You 
have  done  so  much  for  us."  But  finesse  is  of  lit- 
tle avail  when  your  foe  uses  the  broadsword. 

"  My  child,"  said  the  Duke,  "  look  at  me." 

She  did  her  best  —  maintained  it  for  some  sec- 
onds. Then  what  she  saw  beat  her. 

"  Don't  you  know  that  I  'm  an  old  fool  about 
you  —  hey?  Don't  you  know  that  I'd  cut  my 
hand  off  if  that  would  serve  you?  Don't  you 
know  what  kind  of  a  woman  I  know  you  to  be? 
Do  you  think  I  Ve  had  to  do  with  many  —  Good 
Lord!  with  any  such  before?  How  old  are 
you?" 

She  told  him,  "  Twenty-five."  She  was  very 
much  disturbed. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  'm  thirty-two  years  more 
than  that,  but  I  love  you  like  a  boy  of  your  own 
age."  And  then  he  took  her  in  his  arms. 

Lying  there,  close  held,  her  forehead  fanned 
by  his  fierce  breath,  she  began  her  struggle.  She 
fought  stilly,  without  passion,  without'  urgent  en- 
treaty, for  her  soul. 

"  Don't  be  unkind  to  me.  Don't  hurt  me." 
He  heard  her  say  that.  He  pressed  her  closer. 

"  My  own !     Give  me  your  lips." 

She  looked  up  at  him.  Her  eyes  were  full. 
"  Ah,  my  friend,  don't  ask  it."  He  released  her 
instantly. 


EQUIVOCAL  ESTABLISHMENT     191 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  was  too  rough  with  you? 
Then  I  'm  a  brute.  Did  I  actually  hurt  you?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no  —  not  that.    Not  in  that  way." 

"  What  was  it  then?    Out  with  it." 

"  You  hurt  -^-  you  were  hurting  —  my 
thoughts." 

"Your  thoughts,  child?"  She  had  the  lapel 
of  his  coat  in  her  hand,  and  watched  her  fingers 
playing  upon  it. 

"  My  thoughts  of  you,  I  meant.  I  had  such 
fine  thoughts.  You  were  hurting  them.  That 
was  what  I  meant." 

He  smiled,  but  rather  grimly.  "  Ho !  I  see. 
The  ideal !  I  had  my  knife  into  that,  had  I  ?  " 

Her  brows  arched  high.  She  nodded  her  head 
many  times,  sadly,  before  she  whispered  "  Yes." 
The  Duke  bent  himself  to  and  fro  before  the  fire. 

"  Don't  be  offended  with  me,  dear  friend,"  she 
pleaded.  "  You  see,  I  could  n't  be  here  if  I 
thought  —  if  you  felt  like  that  about  me.  That 
would  be  wrong.  You  like  me,  I  know;  but  you 
like  me  as  I  am.  You  don't  want  to  make  me 
unlike  myself." 

"  Like  me,  for  instance,"  he  said. 

She  waved  that  away.  "  Believe  me,  that  I 
value  your  friendship  — " 

"  My  love,  say.  Let 's  have  it  all  out,  my 
dear." 


192  MRS.  LANCELOT 

"  Well  —  whatever  it  may  be,  I  value  it  above 
everything  else.  But — "  and  now  she  looked 
him  straight  in  the  face  — "  but  I  don't  feel  like 
that  about  you,  and  I  ought  not  to.  Will  you 
forgive  me  for  saying  so  ?  " 

He  frowned,  was  much  put  out  for  a  minute, 
then  he  cleared  his  voice  and  said,  "  Give  me 
your  hand,  Georgie." 

She  did  without  hesitation.  He  kissed  it  long, 
and  still  held  it. 

"  You  're  a  little  angel,  my  dear.  I  won't  for- 
get this,  and  I  promise  that  you  shan't  remember 
it.  I  '11  get  myself  in  hand  again.  I  can,  you 
know  —  and  by  God  I  Ve  done  it  before  — 
more  times  than  you  might  suppose.  Don't  give 
me  up  because  I  Ve  got  a  devil  inside  me.  Give 
me  the  office,  and  I  '11  knock  his  ugly  sconce  for 
him.  But,  bless  my  soul!  if  you  threw  over  a 
man  because  of  his  devils,  you  'd  have  nothing 
left  but  a  nunnery.  Now  I  'm  going  to  beg  your 
pardon,  and  you  're  going  to  forgive  me,  and 
we  '11  be  friends  again.  Is  that  it?  " 

"Of  course,"  she  said;  and  then  by  a  natural 
revulsion  jumped  into  his  arms  and  kissed  him. 
That  he  received  exactly  as  her  grandfather 
might.  To  her,  at  least,  he  was  a  very  honest 
man.  He  lost  none  of  her  admiration,  and  did 
not  for  a  moment  suppose  that  he  had. 

Since  then  he  had  been  all  that  she  wished; 


EQUIVOCAL  ESTABLISHMENT     193 

but  examining  her  own  heart  in  various  spare 
moments  after  this  scene,  she  wondered  why  she 
did  not  love  him,  and  whether  she  was  capable  of 
loving  anybody. 


CHAPTER  II 

NAUSITHOE  AND   OTHER    POEMS 

THE  ways  of  poets  are  past  finding  out,  and 
arguing  with  them  is  idle;  otherwise  one 
would  have  been  interested  to  know  how  Gervase 
Poore  found  time  to  follow  the  practice  of  the 
law  to  the  advantage  of  his  master's  clients,  to 
inform  himself  so  perfectly  into  the  habits  of 
Mrs.  Lancelot  and  her  two  cavaliers,  and  to  com- 
pose the  numbers  which  make  up  Nausithoe  and 
Other  Poems.  Not  only  did  he  do  so,  but  he 
found  them  a  publisher  by  the  friendly  services  of 
Mr.  Thomas  Moore,  and  received  a  reasonable 
attention  from  the  reviews,  and,  in  all,  the  sum 
of  twenty  pounds. 

His  talents  were  admitted,  his  perfervidum 
ingenium;  but  he  was  reproached  for  an  undue 
warmth  of  expression,  for  a  lusciousness  of  epi- 
thet. A  critic  said  that  he  treated  women  as  if 
they  were  fruit;  another  that  his  collected  hero- 
ines were  like  odalisques  within  book-covers. 
Even  his  friend  Mr.  Moore  reproved  him. 
"  You  're  too  warm,  my  boy.  They  '11  take  it 
from,  me,  but  they  won't  take  it  from  you." 

194 


NAUSITHOfi  195 

"  Because  you  make  them  cry,  the  women 
are  on  your  side,"  Poore  grumbled. 

"  I  '11  not  deny  it,"  said  Tom.  "  You  '11  never 
get  'em  by  scolding.  Besides  —  a  plague ! 
Aren't  they  darlings?" 

"  I  have  no  notion,"  Gervase  answered.  "  I 
only  know  one  —  and  she  's  a  darling,  if  you 
will." 

"And  do  you  want  to  scold  her,  young  man? 
You  make  her  cry  that  way,  but  she  '11  owe  you 
no  thanks  for  that." 

"  She  shall  never  cry  when  I  Ve  got  her,"  said 
Poore.  "  She  won't  have  time." 

Mr.  Moore  looked  at  him  quizzingly,  and 
wagged  his  plump  forefinger.  "  I  believe  you  're 
something  of  a  Turk,  young  Poore.  I  shall  set 
Bessy  at  you  —  for  your  soul's  health.  Now, 
when  will  you  come  down  to  Wilts  and  see  my 
Bessy?  Proud  she'll  be  —  and  we'll  have  a 
great  night.  Maybe  I  '11  get  his  Lordship  in  to 
supper.  You  '11  enjoy  him." 

"  I  shall  quarrel  with  him.  No  lords  for 
me,  Tom.  I  'm  not  an  easy  drinker.  I  get  too 
hot." 

Tom  ran  through  the  thin  green  quarto,  sup- 
ping sweets  as  he  went.  Nausithoe  was  a  little 
long  for  him;  and  he  owned  he  had  no  taste 
for  phantoms.  "  To  set  the  dear  girl  cuddling 
with  a  mist-wraith !  It 's  too  bad  of  ye,  Poore. 


196  MRS.  LANCELOT 

But  ye  Ve  no  conscience  then  at  all.  '  The  little 
slim  thing,  gossamer-light ' —  a  pretty  line,  a  trip- 
ping, pretty  rhythm.  It 's  better  than  my  ana- 
paests, and  be  d — d  to  you.  I  could  never  hit  off 
octo-syllables.  Here  we  are  again: 

She,  bosom's  mate,  the  delicate, 

Child-faced,  gray-eyed,  of  sober  gait, 

Of  burning  mind,  of  passion  pent 

To  image-making,  ever  went 

Where  wonned  her  mistress;  for  those  two 

By  the  heart's  grace  together  grew. 

Young  man,  your  authority  for  giving  the  Lady 
Proserpine  a  bedfellow?" 

"  Callimachus,  Tom,"  said  Poore  before  he 
drank. 

"  I  overlooked  the  bard.  I  can't  contradict 
ye  —  being  a  poor  Grecian.  But  she  's  a  darling, 
this  Nausithoe. 

O  thou  meek 

And  gentle  vision,  let  me  tell 
Thy  beauties  o'er  I  Ve  loved  so  well.     .     .     . 

And  bedad,  so  you  do,  you  rogue."  Then  he 
ran  on: 

Thy  sweet  low  bosom's  rise  and  fall, 
Pulsing  the  heart's  clear  madrigal, 
Or  how  the  blue  beam  from  thine  eyes 
Imageth  all  love's  urgencies; 
Thy  lip's  frail  fragrance.     .    .    . 


NAUSITHOE  197 

Tu-tu-tu !  This  is  a  very  pictorial  piece,  and  I  '11 
warrant  her  true  to  sample.  Now  who  'd  she  be? 
Do  I  know  her?  Is  there  any  more  of  her,  after 
old  Endocles  has  hugged  her  into  a  rheumatiz  — » 
ugh !  You  Ve  no  heart,  me  boy.  You  're  no 
lover." 

"  I  love  her  beyond  music,  Tom.  She  's  every- 
where in  that  book  —  and  I  'm  going  to  send  it 
to  her  —  and  tell  her  so,  too." 

Tom  was  turning  over  the  pages.  "  She  '11  take 
it  kindly,  if  she  's  as  you  make  her  out.  Is  she 
here,  too?  What's  this?  What's  this? 

The  thin  Coan  vest 

Folding  that  tremulous  bosom,  learn  to  sing 
Treasure  more  ample,  treasury  more  deft.     .     .     . 

Fie,  Gervase  Poore!  They  call  me  Anacreon, 
but  they  '11  call  you  Propertius.  Have  you  seen 
her,  then,  in  a  Coan  vest?  You  Ve  had  your 
bonnes  fortunes." 

This  Poore  accepted  with  a  grin.  His  friend 
ran  sparkling  on  to  the  end.  Then  he  declaimed : 

With  what  black  juices  wrung  from  Thessaly 

He  stained  thee,  lute,  with  what  of  myrrh  and  nard 

She  steeped  thee;  whatso  thou  hast  learned  of  rite 

Mutter'd  by  witches'  fire  —  come,  where  no  fard 

Can  thicken  thy  delight, 

Nor  unguents  make  more  bright  mystery, 

Nor  unguents  make  more  bright 
Her  face,  her  eyes,  her  body,  in  my  sight! 


198  MRS.  LANCELOT 

Boy,  you  Ve  venom.  You  can  bite.  What  had 
she  done  to  you?  " 

Poore  was  scowling.  "  Never  you  mind,  Tom. 
I  was  in  a  rage,  I  admit.  Sir,  I  howled,  I  tore 
my  hair.  But  I  felt  better  for  it  —  and  I  should 
have  cut  it  out  but  that  it 's  so  d — d  good.  And 
she  won't  understand  it,  bless  her  pure  heart  1  " 

Tom  shook  his  head.  "  She  will  do  that. 
She  '11  understand  it.  She  '11  have  it  by  heart." 
'  That,"  said  Poore,  "  is  how  she 's  got  to 
have  me  —  by  hook  or  by  crook." 

"  Leda  's  a  good  subject — "  The  elder  was 
back  in  the  volume.  "  I  thought  of  it  myself  — 
but  I  shirked  it.  Married  man,  my  boy;  and  I 
read  Bessy  every  line.  Make  that  rule  when  you 
set  up  house  with  Nausithoe,  or  Cynthia  —  no, 
no,  she  's  not  a  Cynthia,  I  '11  swear;  for  you  're 
an  honest  boy  for  all  your  mountings  —  but  I 
like  your  Leda,  saving  one  bit  that 's  too  free. 
Upon  my  Pegasus,  too  free.  I  should  never  have 
dared.  You  end  well  —  you  can  do  that.  You 
prove  yourself  so.  Any  one  can  begin  —  but 
to  end,  ah!  Now  how  long  were  you  getting 
that?  — 

The  swan  that  dies  in  music,  other  ware 
(O  lucent  stream  that  mirrors  swan  for  swan!) 
For  mating  hath  and  mastery.     Leda  knew  it 
(The  swan's  wife!)   for  in  time  an  egg  she  bare 
Down  by  the  sedges  where  her  love  began, 
Twi-yolkt  of  perfect  woman,  perfect  man  — 


NAUSITHOE  199 

Helen  so  rare  imperfect  man  must  rue  it; 

And  as  the  sweet  spring  ran 

She  nested  them,  and  he  watched  by  her  there. 

"  I  got  it  in  Piccadilly  —  whole  —  laid  it  like 
an  egg." 

"A  polished  egg  —  eh?  Keats  couldn't  have 
done  that,  the  sweet  fellow.  He  liked  proverbial 
endings  —  ran  sententious  as  he  drooped.  What 
is  it?  '  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,'  tum-ti-tum. 
Yes,  that 's  a  way.  But  I  like  yours  .  .  . 
Here  's  another: 

"  Oreithyia,  by  the  North  Wind  carried 
To  stormy  Thrace,  think  you  of  how  you  tarried 
And  let  him  woo  and  wed?        Ah,  no,  for  now 
He's  kissed  all  Athens  from  my  open  brow. 
I  am  the  Wind's  wife,  wooed  and  won  and  married. 

And  you  can  put  things  with  fine  simplicity,  my 
boy.     Above,  ye  say  — 

"  She  bore  him  twins, 
Zethes  and  Calais,  in  a  rock-bound  place. 

I  like  that;  I  know  that's  good.  The  most  of 
us  are  too  fond  of  confectionery  .  .  .  But 
you  put  your  lady  in  queer  conjunctions,  truly. 
Here  she  is  married  to  the  North-east  Wind. 
Worse  than  her  ghost !  What  '11  they  leave  for 
you,  my  lad?  And  what  '11  you  be  to  her?  " 
"  I  '11  be  everything  to  her,  or  nothing,"  said 

Poore,  who  seemed  serenely  positive  about  it. 
13 


200  MRS.  LANCELOT 

Next  his  friend  must  know  the  lady,  and  after 
some  pressing,  finding  out  that  she  was  of  the 
great  world,  he  was  like  a  hound  on  a  good  scent 
and  swept  all  the  coverts  in  London  till  he  found 
her.  So  he  presently  did  with  a  whoop !  and  a 
"  Tear  him  to  pieces !  " 

Poore  was  now  red  and  angry.  "  I  '11  trouble 
you  to  speak  with  all  respect  of  Mrs.  Lancelot, 
Mr.  Moore."  The  little  Irishman  laughed  till 
he  cried. 

"  Pooh  for  you,  Mr.  Poore.  Your  name  may 
rhyme  with  mine,  but  yourself  won't  reason  with 
me  on  those  terms.  Respect!  And  how  should 
I  not  respect  a  charming  lady,  friend  of  so  great 
a  man  as  the  Duke?" 

"  It 's  not  for  that  I  should  ask  you  to  respect 
her  —  but  for  this,  Tom,  for  this."  He  banged 
with  his  fist.  "  That,  being  his  friend,  inmate  of 
his  house  with  her  dolly-stick  husband,  she  re- 
mains beyond  reproach,  ineffably  pure  and  holy." 

"  In  a  Coan  vest,  I  think?  "  said  Tom  Moore 
quietly. 

"  She  could  wear  less  than  that,  and  remain  as 
she  is.  When  Aphrodite  came  shining  from  the 
foam,  do  you  think  she  gave  shameful  thoughts? 
Only  to  the  shamed  already." 

Tom,  who  was  arguing  in  the  air,  and  only  a 
strict  moralist  on  paper,  and  then  only  occasion- 
ally, was  now  centered  upon  a  much  more  inter- 


NAUSITHOE  201 

esting  point.  He  loved  to  intervene.  Could  he 
serve  his  young  friend? 

"  Listen  here,  my  boy.  I  love  you  and  will 
do  you  a  turn  if  I  can.  Now  what  do  you  say? 
I  am  on  visiting  terms  —  I  could  make  my  bow 
to  her  any  day  of  the  week  —  or  to  the  Duke, 
begad.  His  two  fingers  (and  he  gives  no  more 
to  the  grandest  in  the  land)  are  mine  when  I 
want  'em.  Now  what  do  you  say?  Shall  I  ask 
leave  to  present  you?  Shall  I  do  that?  " 

The  young  man  frowned  over  the  proposal 
and  chewed  his  cheek.  Then  he  tossed  back  his 
cloud  of  hair.  "  I  '11  not  go  to  her  like  that  — 
I  '11  do  it  my  own  way.  Thank  ye  kindly,  Tom, 
but  I  'm  minded  to  take  her  by  storm." 

"  How  '11  ye  do  that,  my  boy?  You're  not 
Jove  that  I  know  of.  Don't  be  absurd  now,  but 
buy  yourself  a  pair  of  white  kids  and  I  '11  take 
ye  to  the  ball." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  go  to  the  ball  with  you,  Tom,  and 
shift  for  myself.  I  '11  not  refuse  a  card  for 
the  ball.  And  I  '11  tell  you  what  you  shall  do 
for  me  —  you  're  a  kind  little  man,  Tom,  and 
the  best  friend  I  Ve  got,  I  do  believe.  You  shall 
take  her  Nausithoe  and  she  shall  read  it.  What 
do  you  say?  " 

"  I  say,"  cried  Tom,  "  that  you  Ve  the 
damnedest  impudence  of  anybody  out  of  Ireland, 
and  I  Ve  a  good  mind  to  throw  this  pint-pot  at 


202  MRS.  LANCELOT 

ye.  But  I  '11  do  it,  I  '11  do  it.  I  'm  an  impudent 
rascal  myself  —  and  that 's  how  I  get  even  with 
the  aristocracy.  For  I  know  I  'm  as  good  as  any 
of  'em  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  d'  ye  see  ?  by  reason 
of  me  genius." 

"  And  so  you  are,  Tom,"  said  Poore,  folding 
his  arms.  "  You  and  I  will  never  bow  the  knee 
but  to  two  things  —  Brain  and  Beauty." 

"  And  brawn,"  Tom  shouted,  "  and  brawn,  me 
little  gamester!  Brain,  Brawn  and  Beauty!" 
At  that  moment  he  felt  himself  to  be  ten  feet 
high  and  a  very  conqueror. 

The  tavern  filled,  and  Mr.  Moore,  who  was 
about  to  make  his  bow  to  a  great  lady  and  feared 
to  foul  his  fine  feathers  with  tobacco  smoke,  was 
in  haste  to  depart.  Poore  accompanied  him  into 
the  street.  It  was  raining  and  the  young  man 
had  no  great-coat.  "  Let  me  take  ye  in  me 
cabriolet,"  said  Tom.  "  It  '11  not  be  much  out 
of  me  way.  I  'm  going  to  Holland  House  —  but 
I  'm  your  man  as  far  as  Tibbald's  Road." 

"  I  'm  not  going  there,  Tom  —  not  for  a  long 
spell." 

"Where  are  ye  for  then,  bad  boy?" 

Poore  said  seriously,  "  I  think  that  she  dines  at 

Lady  B 's  in  Arlington  Street.  I  Ve  lost  her 

entry,  thanks  to  you." 

"  Me  dear  boy  —  me  dear  boy!  " 

"  Not  a  bit,  Tom.    You  Ve  done  me  a  sight  of 


NAUSITHOE  203 

good.  But  you  shall  put  me  down  in  Piccadilly 
and  I  shall  see  her  sortie.  She  '11  be  going  to 
some  great  house  or  another  afterwards,  poor 
dear.  She  's  looking  very  worn.  She  grows  thin, 
you  know."  He  spoke  in  a  hushed  down  voice. 
"  Tom,  I  saw  her  collar-bones  the  other  night, 
and  they  cut  me  to  the  quick." 

"  The  devil  they  did,"  said  Tom. 

"  She  's  not  fed,  my  man,  she  's  not  fed.  It 's 
monstrous  —  she  's  being  starved.  I  must  stop 
it,  you  know."  He  groaned,  threw  up  his  head, 
then  his  arms,  invoking  the  sky.  "  The  rain 
comes  down  like  tears.  Nature  pities  us  —  the 
generous  goddess.  O  God,  Tom,  O  God  —  cry 
with  me,  O  God  —  I  'm  bleeding  for  her." 

"  Me  dear  boy,  me  dear  boy  — "  Tom 
Moore  had  tears  in  his  eyes.  "  And  ye  might  as 
well  be  crying  for  the  hidden  moon.  Here  's  the 
shay.  In  with  you." 

Jogging  over  the  cobbles  the  kind  little  Irish- 
man kept  his  hand  on  the  knee  of  his  perverse 
friend  and  poured  out  his  advice  like  water. 
"  Now  do  be  guided  by  me,  Gervase;  the  road  you 
take  leads  right  to  Bedlam.  You  Ve  a  gift,  you  Ve 
a  fire,  you  Ve  a  sincerity  —  you  mean  what  you 
say,  and  you  don't  care  a  curse  for  the  reviewers. 
You  may  be  a  great  man,  Gervase.  Think  of 
that  now.  And  you  throw  it  all  to  the  winds  for 
the  sake  of  a  little  slip  of  a  woman  not  so  high  as 


204  MRS.  LANCELOT 

your  shoulder.  And  she  with  two  husbands  al- 
ready !  O  madness,  madness !  Quern  deus  vult 
perdere,  bedad!  What  can  be  the  end  of  it? 
let  me  ask  you ;  kindly  think  it  over,  and  I  '11  be 
obliged  to  ye.  D'ye  know  Lancelot?  'T  is  not 
a  man,  't  is  an  icehouse.  D'  ye  know  me  friend 
the  Duke?  'T  is  not  a  man,  't  is  a  raging  volcano. 
It 's  between  fire  and  snow  she  is,  the  little  slim 
thing,  as  ye  call  her,  prettily  enough  —  oh, 
you  Ve  the  words  in  ye  —  and  the  music  of  'um. 
And  where  do  you  step  in,  unless  ye  can  souse  the 
Duke  with  melted  Lancelot?  Is  it  that  you  are 
after?  God's  my  life,  Gervase,  it'll  be  murder 
you  '11  be  making,  bloody  murder !  Ah,  now,  let 
the  woman  alone.  Make  a  wrench  of  ut,  me 
boy.  Come  with  me  to  Sloperton  and  see  my 
Bessy,  and  play  with  the  children.  Make  your 
pomes  to  their  good  little  hearts.  Why,  why, 
it's  madness!  An  attorney's  clerk,  and  the 
Duke's  flame!  Poet  be  jiggered.  They  don't 
know  'um  in  the  Morning  Post.  '  Mr.  Poore, 
who  is,  we  believe,  an  attorney,  yesterday  ran 

away  with  Mrs.  L 1.     Gretna  is  the  supposed 

destination  of  the  retiring  couple.'  That 's  how 
ye  '11  be  pilloried,  young  man."  Gervase,  his  hat 
over  his  brows,  had  little  to  say;  but  God,  it 
seems,  had  not  given  him  his  square  jaw  for  noth- 
ing. At  the  White  Horse  Cellars  he  thrust  his 
head  out  of  the  coach  and  stopped  the  driver. 


NAUSITHOE  205 

Then  he  jumped  out,  but  not  before  he  had  wrung 
his  friend's  hand. 

"  God  bless  you,  Tom.  You  are  the  best  little 
man  in  breeches  that  ever  I  met.  Take  her  her 
book  and  tell  her  that  her  lover  wrote  it  with  his 
blood.  I  '11  see  you  again,  please  God,  before 
you  go  to  the  west.  Good  night,  my  friend,  good 
night."  And  he  was  gone.  Tom  slapped  his 
knees,  pulled  up  the  window,  and  away.  Quern 
deus  vult  perdere,  indeed! 

The  grudged  of  the  gods  crossed  Piccadilly 
and  entered  Arlington  Street,  where  the  carriages 
were  already  lined.  They  coiled  down  Bennet 
Street  into  Saint  James's,  and  the.  block  on  the 
pavement  was  dense  about  the  awning.  Link- 
boys  stood  there  restless,  the  footmen  were  lined 
up,  and  behind  them  a  dingy  crowd,  wet,  steam- 
ing and  sour-smelling.  Gervase  insinuated  his 
broad  person  by  degrees  into  the  midst,  pulled 
his  hat  further  over  his  brows  and  waited.  The 
guests  were  departing  already.  Great  names 
were  bawled  out  into  the  street,  and  at  every  one 
a  footman  detached  himself  from  his  company, 
and  a  link-boy,  eager  for  a  copper,  flew  shrieking 
the  name.  A  Royal  Highness,  muzzy  with  drink, 
came  first  with  a  cloud  of  witnesses  about  him: 
men  talking  loudly,  half-contemptuous  of  their 
convoy,  half-elated  at  the  rank  of  him.  Dow- 
agers with  daughters,  uniformed  officers,  two  Rus- 


206  MRS.  LANCELOT 

sian  grandees  in  sables  and  great  head-dresses, 
two  pretty  women  in  diamonds  and  feathers  es- 
corted by  a  purple-faced  peer,  some  young  men 
in  long  cloaks  who  pushed  a  way  through  the 
spectators.  One  of  Jthem  butted  into  Gervase 
with  a  "  Give  way,  my  man  " ;  but  Gervase  gave 
him  the  benefit  of  his  shoulder  without  a  word, 
and  jerked  the  dandy's  hat  off.  "  D —  your  eyes, 
you  booby!  Don't  you  know  a  gentleman?" 
"  D —  your  own,  I  do,"  was  the  reply,  which  the 
bystanders  approved  with  jeers.  The  injured  ex- 
quisite stood  with  his  friends,  meditating  attack, 
but  Gervase  had  turned  his  back,  for  "  The  Duke 
of  Devizes'  carriage !  "  was  being  shouted  from 
the  house;  and  "  The  Duke  's  coming  —  look  out 
for  the  Duke !  "  was  bandied  among  the  people. 

Gervase,  working  his  jaw,  waited  without  a 
breath.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  lighted  in- 
terior. She  was  coming.  He  saw  the  eyes  of 
the  footmen  turned  towards  the  stairs.  Then  he 
saw  her  plain. 

She  came  out  on  the  arm  of  the  Duke,  whose 
white  head  was  bare.  He  looked  straight  before 
him,  carrying  his  head  stiffly,  and  talked  in  his 
high  complaining  way.  "  I  told  the  fellow  that 
I  could  do  nothing  for  him.  Not  in  my  county  — 
had  n't  served  with  me  or  anybody  I  cared  a  snap 
of  the  fingers  — "  She  was  looking  pale  and  pre- 
occupied, was  not  listening:  that  he  saw  at  once. 


NAUSITHOE  207 

White  plumes  danced  above  her  small  head,  and 
a  glittering  band  of  gold  brocade  held  them, 
wound  closely  about  her  hair.  She  was  cloaked, 
but  he  could  see  her  neck  —  a  line  of  pearls  round 
her  throat,  and  then  whiteness,  and  the  gleam  of 
her  skin.  Ah,  but  she  was  thin,  this  guarded 
goddess  of  his !  Her  eyes  were  anxious  —  how 
large,  how  deeply  blue!  She  turned  her  head 
his  way.  Vague  wonder  showed,  vague  suffering. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  and  she  gazed  long  at 
each  other.  His  own  strong  color  fainted,  the 
mist  came  over  his  eyes,  his  lips  moved;  and  the 
blood  pumped  up  from  his  heart  beat  at  the  walls 
of  his  veins.  She  passed  by;  he  could  see  her  no 
longer.  He  ground  his  teeth  together  then  and 
stiffened  himself,  clenching  his  fists.  By  God,  by 
God,  but  he  could  take  her  now  —  And  then, 
at  the  words,  behind  her  and  her  escort,  he  saw 
Charles  Lancelot  come,  tall  and  cold,  with  trouble 
on  his  brow.  The  husband  and  the  lover,  be- 
setting her  behind  and  before.  What  had  they 
been  doing  with  her  in  there?  Where  were  they 
taking  her  now,  these  two?  To  what  infamy? 
What  would  they  do  with  her  when  they  had  her 
behind  those  great  doors  of  Wake  House, 
that  opened  in  the  midst  like  the  two  jaws  of 
Behemoth,  and  shut  upon  her  and  hid  her  from 
him?  Infamy,  infamy!  What  a  life  for  this 
lovely,  hapless  woman  —  with  an  ice-gripped  hus- 


MRS.  LANCELOT 

band  and  a  strident,  monstrous  old  lover,  who 
lived  shamelessly  and  laughed  at  himself  for  it! 
Did  God  live,  and  love  His  world,  and  this  fairest 
of  His  creatures,  and  suffer  such  things  to  be? 
Was  he,  Poore  the  poet,  to  be  execrated  if  he 
snatched  her  from  this,  and  they,  forsooth,  to  be 
honored  for  shackling  her  by'the  ankle  and  hoard- 
ing her  for  their  vile  or  sinister  purpose?  If  he 
kissed  the  light  back  into  those  glorious  eyes,  if 
he  warmed  those  paling  lips,  if  he  renewed  that 
fading  form,  if  he  gave  her  the  power  of  loving 
—  would  that  be  a  sin  ?  Monstrous  to  suppose 
it,  blasphemy  against  God,  when  they  froze  and 
stared  her  cold. 

He  heard  cheers  for  "  The  Duke  "  as  the  great 
horses  sprang  forward.  He  saw  the  footmen 
swaying  behind  —  janissaries,  eunuchs  of  the 
door.  He  raised  his  fist,  and  from  between 
clenched  teeth  cried  curses  upon  these  pashas  who 
sat  upon  the  prone  bodies  of  Englishmen  and  fed 
on  delicate  flesh. 


CHAPTER  III 

SHE    READS    OF    HERSELF 


was  upon  her  conscience,  and  her 
V_>(  conscience  fretted  at  her  nerves.  It  's  no 
wonder  she  was  getting  thin.  She  was  twenty- 
six  years  old,  had  been  six  years  married,  and 
four  years  a  wife.  Her  only  child  had  been  born 
dead,  and  by  her  own  act  she  was  'to  have  no 
other.  And  Charles,  while  he  resented  it  deeply, 
made  no  overt  advances  to  her.  She  discovered 
that  she  knew  nothing  about  Charles.  It  was 
that  which  made  her  pity  him.  He  had  become 
a  stranger,  would  have  to  woo  her  again,  but 
must  do  so,  she  knew,  fruitlessly,  and  would  not, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  do  so  at  all.  If  Charles 
missed  his  spring,  he  could  not  spring  again.  She 
felt  that  in  various  signs.  He  was  now  become 
outrageously  polite:  that  was  a  sure  sign  in 
Charles.  He  had  always  been  polite,  but  was 
now  outrageously  so.  The  business  of  this  tore 
her  to  pieces  and  threatened  her  control  of  her- 
self. When  he  sprang  up  —  from  whatever  he 
was  doing  —  to  open  the  door  for  her,  she  could 
*4  209 


210  MRS.  LANCELOT 

have  stormed  at  him  —  a  white  storm  it  would 
have  been,  for  he  made  her  go  quite  cold.  Yet 
she  dared  not  hint  at  her  distress,  for  it  would 
have  made  him  worse.  He  was  so  inarticulate, 
this  unhappy  man.  To  rob  him  of  his  form  and 
ceremony  would  be  to  make  him  dumb. 

He  had  always  been  silent,  discussing  few  in- 
timacies with  her.  His  manner  of  dealing  with 
such  things  had  been  by  discoursing  round  about 
them.  He  had  made  homilies,  and  she  had  lis- 
tened, ticking  off  the  heads,  that  she  might  get 
them  by  heart.  Now  he  avoided  all  such  mat- 
ters: their  consequence,  or  their  futility,  it 
seemed,  intimidated  him. 

But,  while  he  was  thus  abstinent  from  reality, 
he  became  profuse  in  small  talk.  He  gave  her 
details  of  public  life  —  veriest  gossip — which 
sickened  her  of  politics,  and  (if  he  could  only 
have  known  it)  threw  her  more  often,  for  mere 
breathing-room,  into  the  Duke's  society.  For  the 
Duke  looked  on  politics  as  a  game  to  keep  the 
groundlings  busy  while  he,  and  perhaps  a  couple 
more,  kept  the  King's  government  in  running  or- 
der. The  Duke's  mind  may  not  have  been  of  a 
high  caliber  —  certainly  he  was  no  idealist;  but 
it  had  a  large  outlook.  Charles  saw  pin-points, 
loved  minutiae.  Georgiana,  who,  like  all  women, 
was  attentive  to  detail,  like  all  women  despised  it 
in  a  man. 


SHE  READS  OF  HERSELF        211 

She  had  hitherto  accepted  the  tory  formulae,  as 
Charles  displayed  them,  without  a  question.  Un- 
der the  Duke's  influence  she  now  began  to  dismiss 
them  as  of  little  account.  Property,  upon  which 
the  opposition  to  reform  really  depended,  was 
sacred  in  the  eyes  of  the  Charleses;  if  you  could 
take  a  man's  borough  or  vote,  you  might  take  his 
land,  or  his  wife.  Robbery,  sacrilege,  the  door 
open  to  Anarchy !  So  cried  Charles.  The  Duke, 
however,  admitted  that  you  could  take  anything 
from  anybody  —  if  you  could  get  it.  His  imme- 
diate business  was  to  see  that  you  could  not  get 
it.  Meantime,  there  was  the  State,  the  body  poli- 
tic; which  was  a  complicated  machine  running  in 
conjunction  with  other  European  machines,  or  in 
opposition  to  them.  Now,  said  he,  this  old  ma- 
chine has  been  got  into  a  groove  which  suits  it, 
which  suits  the  mechanics,  and  does  not  hinder 
the  great  complexus  of  which  it  is  a  part.  Europe 
understands  us,  and  we  Europe.  We  can  get 
along  with  few  rubs.  But  if  you  change  the 
House  of  Commons  you  will  have  to  make  new 
grooves  —  which  will  take  time ;  and  not  only 
that,  but  while  you  are  making  them  your  machine 
will  be  running  eccentrically,  running  amok,  jos- 
tling among  other,  stable  bodies,  colliding  —  in  so 
many  words,  as  he  put  it,  this  country  will  be  at 
the  mercy  of  any  other  which  happens  to  have 
its  affairs  in  order.  That  would  n't  at  all  suit  the 


212  MRS.  LANCELOT 

man  who  wishes  to  dine,  in  decent  comfort,  at 
eight  o'clock  every  night.  Therefore  it  must  be 
stopped. 

Here  at  least  was  a  practical  view  of  politics, 
and  Georgiana,  who  had  not  the  least  suspicion 
that  she  was  an  idealist,  jumped  at  it  and  spread 
it  out  like  butter  upon  the  hard  biscuit  of  Charles's 
catering.  It  was  capable  of  infinite  extension,  of 
course.  She  neither  knew  that,  nor  that  it  was 
the  merest  opportunism.  She  did  not  see  that  the 
Duke  was  the  greatest  Anarch  in  England,  keep- 
ing the  rest  of  us  from  Anarchy  that  he  might  so 
remain  in  peace  and  quietness.  The  advantage 
of  his  political  philosophy  to  her  was  that,  when 
the  time  came,  she  was  able  to  shed  it,  like  a 
shawl,  by  a  jerk  of  the  shoulders. 

The  Duke,  plain  man  that  he  was,  desired  her, 
and  showed  it.  But  he  had  himself  very  well  in 
hand,  and  was  quite  content  to  wait  her  conven- 
ience. She  wouldn't  —  couldn't  —  stand  much 
more  of  Charles,  he  judged.  Meantime  Charles 
was  useful  —  and  she  had  something  for  him; 
not  much,  but  something.  He  was  able  to  be  her 
constant  companion,  her  benefactor,  her  husband's 
patron,  to  talk  to  her  extremely  intimately  of  his 
affairs,  to  show  her  nevertheless  by  every  look 
that  he  coveted  possession  of  her  and  her  charms 
—  and  with  all  that,  to  claim  nothing  she  did  not 
choose  to  give  him.  He  got  all  the  pleasure  out 


SHE  READS  OF  HERSELF        213 

of  all  this  that  was  to  be  had;  and  it  was  a  good 
deal. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  she  gave  him  her 
cheek.  She  saw  no  harm  in  that.  But  she  was 
able,  by  some  unconscious  hold  upon  him  which 
was  quite  out  of  her  recognition,  to  keep  him 
there.  After  that  one  occasion  when  he  had 
failed  of  an  assault,  he  refrained  from  attempting 
her  by  any  such  means.  But  he  talked  —  his 
frankness  ought,  perhaps,  to  have  appalled  her; 
but  it  did  not.  It  interested  her;  she  never  replied 
to  it  in  its  own  kind;  but  she  listened.  So  far  in 
her  life,  she  had  been  a  listener.  She  had  listened 
to  her  family,  to  Charles,  now  to  the  Duke. 
None  of  them  had  ever  stirred  her  into  action. 

But  she  was  not  a  statue;  she  was  become  a 
woman;  and  the  soul  cannot  thrive  on  listening; 
and  if  the  soul  grows  thin,  so  does  the  body.  She 
was  now  in  her  twenty-sixth  year,  a  grave  and 
guarded  little  person,  serious  and  pale,  with  eyes 
so  large  and  thoughtful  that  you  might  have  sup- 
posed all  the  cares  of  the  state  to  be  upon  her  mind 
and  conscience  arid  that  the  Duke  was  enabled  to 
carry  them  so  lightly  because  she  had  allowed  him 
to  put  them  there.  She  said  of  herself,  ruefully, 
that  she  was  growing  a  dowdy;  but  Gervase  Poore, 
who  had  quick  eyes,  thought  that  he  knew  better. 
To  him  she  was  the  perfection  of  delicate  and 
hesitating  charm.  The  tremulous  wonder  of  a 


214  MRS.  LANCELOT 

spring  morning  was  a  favorite  image  with  him; 
the  first  flutter  of  the  light,  the  pensive  gray  and 
violet  of  quiet  evenings. 

One  of  his  similes  for  her  was  the  Hidden  Rose, 
the  frail,  coy  flower  of  the  June  hedgerow: 

More  than  those 

Enfranchised  beauties  her  perfection  shows 

Like  a  concealed  rose, 

But  to  the  thickets  where  she  lieth  close. 

This  will  do  for  a  poet;  but  she  was  shocked 
at  herself  sometimes. 

The  fact  was  that  she  was  starved.  She  was  a 
woman  of  warm  imagination,  of  generous  im- 
pulse. She  would  live,  as  all  good  women  live,  by 
giving.  She  would  give  the  breast;  but  she  had 
no  milk.  For  that  she  must  be  fed.  Her  body 
was  starved  by  her  starving  soul.  Gervase  had 
often  raged  and  torn  at  his  hair  as  he  sat  in  his 
dark  lodging  picturing  her  life.  He  was  wonder- 
fully accurate.  He  saw  her  with  her  husband  at 
hand,  busy  with  her  own  vague  thoughts  while  he 
prated  of  this  and  that  nothingness.  He  saw  her 
with  her  cynical  old  lover,  listening  while  he  re- 
vealed to  her  his  mind  —  and  busy  again  with  her 
pondered  judgments.  He  saw  her  in  her  crowded 
and  brilliant  world,  quietly  beautiful  among  the 
flaunting,  shrill  women,  dressed  exquisitely,  a 
thing  of  wonderful  art  —  anything  but  herself. 
Deep  in  his  heart  he  had  her  as  she  really  was,  a 


SHE  READS  OF  HERSELF        215 

fairy-child,  an  elfin  thing,  at  one  with  the  loveliest 
of  Nature's  world,  which  is  so  little  our  world 
that  the  squirrel  knows  it  more,  and  serves  it 
better  than  the  wisest  of  us.  Gradually  as  he 
agonized,  his  strength  of  purpose  grew  —  to  take 
her  out  of  all  this,  and  set  her  free.  "  Cage-bird, 
cage-bird,  I  will  open  the  door !  "  he  sang.  But 
to  do  that  needed  craft  and  a  savoir  faire  which 
he  was  far  from  possessing.  He  bought  himself 
a  dress-coat  against  the  Wake  House  ball,  for 
which  his  good  friend  Tom  had  promised  him  a 
card.  Towards  this  adventure  he  set  his  eyes,  on 
it  he  brooded  day  and  night.  It  grew  portentous, 
waxing  as  he  waned.  As  the  time  drew  near  his 
heart  was  like  to  fail  him,  so  charged  with  fate 
did  it  now  loom. 

And  the  card  came.  "  The  Duke  of  Devizes 
requests  the  honor  of  Mr.  Poore's  company  at 

Wake  House  Piccadilly  on K  —  at  nine 

o'clock."  It  had  come;  and  the  name  of  Mr. 
Poore  was  filled  in  by  Mrs.  Lancelot.  Her  pen 
had  traced  the  words.  He  kept  it  for  the  rest  of 
his  life. 

Mr.  Moore,  whose  social  instinct  was  so  re- 
markable, had  long  before  this  paid  his  court  to 
the  new  star.  He  had  called  upon  her  in  Smith 
Square.  He  called  again  when  she  was  installed 
in  Wake  House;  and  now,  the  ball  in  prospect, 
actually  foretold  in  the  Morning  Post,  he  called 


216  MRS.  LANCELOT 

once  more.  In  his  hand  as  he  made  his  bow  was 
a  thin  quarto  volume.  He  found  the  Duke  with 
her. 

"  Fair  lady,  I  'm  a  fortunate  man!  Duke,  your 
humble  servant." 

"How  do,  Moore?"  said  the  Duke,  with  one 
finger  for  the  visitor.  He  did  not  like  the  little 
poet,  but  had  he  been  his  bosom  friend  he  would 
have  had  no  other  greeting.  The  fact  is,  the  Duke 
liked  nobody.  He  had  no  natural  benevolence. 
He  could  love,  we  know;  but  that's  a  different 
thing.  In  his  ordinary  acquaintance  he  liked  or 
disliked  the  things  which  people  did.  Above  all 
he  disliked  a  fuss;  and  Mr.  Moore  could  not  walk 
across  a  room  without  that.  He  felt  himself  in 
action,  and  could  only  be  certain  that  he  had  made 
an  effect  when  he  had  set  everybody  else  making 
one. 

The  poet,  however,  made  much  of  his  finger. 
"  Radiant,  my  lord!  I  am  newly  from  the  coun- 
try, Lord  Lansdowne  having  given  me  a  seat  in 
his  carriage,  and  Holland  House  open  to  me  for 
as  long  as  I  please.  That  great  lady  would  have 
it  so,  and  it  was  n't  for  me  to  deny  her !  "  He 
turned  to  his  hostess.  "  But  yourself,  fair  lady? 
I  need  not  ask  if  you  are  well.  You  are  always 
well,  as  becomes  one  favored  by  the  Graces. 
Now,  lest  you  should  accuse  me  that  I  come  to 
your  shrine  empty-handed,  let  me  unburden  my- 


SHE  READS  OF  HERSELF        217 

self.  Mrs.  Lancelot,  you  have  made  a  poet  im- 
mortal !  "  He  tapped  the  thin  volume.  "  You 
are  here,  let  me  tell  you,  in  a  multitude  of  dis- 
guises." 

She  flushed  with  pleasure,  opened  her  eyes 
wide;  she  laughed  a  little.  The  Duke  watched 
her  eyes  narrow,  and  glimmer  like  stars. 

"  Really!  Am  I  in  that  book?  Poetry!  Oh, 
do  let  me  see.  Nobody  has  ever  written  poems 
about  me." 

The  Duke  snorted.  "Poems,  my  dear!  Lit- 
tle you  know  I  I  Ve  written  dozens !  " 

She  turned  to  him  mischievous. 
'  Your  poems !     In  blue-books !     I  don't  like 
the  binding." 

"Match  your  blue  stockings,"  said  the  Duke; 
but  Tom  protested. 

"  Fie,  fie,  your  Grace.  Mrs.  Lancelot  has  no 
such  pretensions.  She  wears  her  colors  in  her 
eyes.  But  let  me  show  you  the  volume." 

"  Give  it  me,  please."  She  took  it  eagerly, 
opened,  bent  her  head  and  began  to  read  in  the 
middle. 

"Your  own,  Moore?"  the  Duke  asked. 

"  Never  in  the  world  I  "  cried  Tom.  "  To  be- 
gin with,  it 's  too  high  doctrine  for  me,  seeing 
I  'm  turned  forty,  with  wife  and  bairns  at  home. 
This  is  a  positive  young  rhymester  flying  at  great 
game.  And  when  he  don't  hymn  our  fair  friend, 


218  MRS.  LANCELOT 

't  is  all  nymphs  and  goddesses  — '  all  growing 
naked  in  the  open  air'!  Ay!  and  a  pretty  turn 
he  has  at  a  couplet,  the  rogue !  But  a  sad  heretic, 
you  know.  He  snaps  his  fingers  at  prosody. 
Base  is  the  slave  that  scans,  says  he!  And  I  say, 
That  is  mighty  fine,  me  boy,  but  if  they  can't  read 
ye  they  won't  buy  ye ;  and  me  friend  John  Murray 
will  visit  you  with  his  displeasure." 

Georgiana  looked  up,  composedly.  Whatever 
she  may  have  read,  she  showed  nothing. 

"  Whose  is  this  book?  Is  it  really  intended  for 
me?" 

"  Undoubtedly,  ma'am.  The  young  rascal 's 
inscribed  it." 

She  hastened  to  look  at  the  fly-leaf,  read  her 
name  and  the  author's.  "  It  is  very  odd.  Who 
is  Gervase  Poore?  I  have  never  heard  of  him, 
and  certainly  never  met  him." 

Tom  looked  waggish.  "  It  seems  that  you 
have.  Do  you  like  his  rhymes?  Have  you  hit 
upon  Nausithoe?  " 

She  looked  doubtful.  "  I  think  I  shall  like 
some  of  it  —  I  don't  know.  I  shall  read  it.  But 
you  say  that  I  have  met  him.  When  was  that? 
Long  ago  ?  " 

"  Some  years  ago,"  she  was  told.  "  Carry  your 
memory  back.  Were  you  ever  at  Vauxhall  Gar- 
dens —  at  a  fete?  " 

She  thought,  then  started,  and  looked  quickly. 


"He  snaps  his  fingers  at  prosody.' 


SHE  READS  OF  HERSELF        221 

'  Yes,  yes,  I  was.  I  met  you  there."  She  turned 
to  the  Duke.  '  You  must  remember  it.  We  were 
with  Di  and  Carnaby,  and  I  was  lost  —  and  you 
all  found  me.  That  was  —  let  me  think  —  three 
years  ago !  At  least !  "  Then  she  turned  her 
eager  face  to  the  poet,  eager  yet  serious.  u  Is 
Gervase  Poore  the  young  man  —  the  gentleman 
who  was  so  kind  as  to  help  me?  "  Tom  nodded 
and  smiled  at  her.  She  explained  quickly  to  the 
Duke,  who  took  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"  I  lost  them,  you  know,  and  stood  by  the  en- 
trance to  the  boxes,  to  wait  until  they  came.  Two 
horrible,  rude  persons  came  up,  and  began  to  talk 
to  me.  I  was  very  uncomfortable,  and  did  n't 
know  what  to  do  —  and  then  this  Mr.  Poore 
flashed  in  between  us  like  a  hurricane,  and 
knocked  one  of  the  men  down.  I  hardly  saw  him, 
before  he  was  gone  again.  I  just  thanked  him. 
But  I  remember  him  perfectly.  He  looked  very 
wild—" 

"  He  is  very  wild,  ma'am,"  said  Tom,  nodding 
again. 

"  Seems  able  to  use  his  hands  though,"  the 
Duke  proposed. 

Georgiana  illuminated  him.  "  He  was  very 
tall  and  square-shouldered.  High-colored,  had 
blue  eyes.  Bright  blue  they  were.  His  hair  was 
very  fair.  How  extraordinary!  How  very  ex- 
traordinary !  But  I  think  it 's  very  kind  of  him. 


222  MRS.  LANCELOT 

I  shall  write  him  a  little  letter.  Don't  you  think 
I  ought  to?  "  That  was  to  the  Duke,  who  simply 
said,  "  Yes,  I  think  you  ought.  You  '11  make  him 
the  happiest  poet  in  Grub  Street." 

"  'T  will  be  a  saintly  act,"  said  Tom,  "  but  I  '11 
go  further.  I  '11  ask  you  to  let  him  wait  upon 
you.  He  is  a  charming  youth,  and  me  very  good 
friend." 

She  made  an  effort  to  conceal  her  interest  in 
the  poet  who  had  belauded  her  in  print.  She  was 
very  simple:  she  liked  to  be  liked. 

"  Pray  let  him  come.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see 
him.  I  can  thank  him  for  his  book  and  — " 

"  And  his  fisticuffs,"  the  Duke  added.  "  They 
were  probably  the  more  timely  gift." 

"  Despise  not  the  poet's  mind,"  Tom  said. 
"  This  is  a  good  poet,  though  I  don't  say  that 
he  's  always  very  reliable.  'T  is  a  full  jug,  your 
Grace  sees,  and  apt  to  spill  over." 

"  Froths  a  bit  too,  eh  ?  "  the  Duke  enquired. 
"  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Georgey,"  he  added  sud- 
denly. "  You  shall  have  him  to  the  ball."  Then 
he  turned  to  Moore  and  asked,  "  Has  he  got  a 
coat,  think  you  ?  " 

"  My  lord,"  replied  Tom,  "  he  has  a  first-class 
coat,  as  I  happen  to  know,  for  I  saw  it  on  him, 
and  know  where  it  came  from.  'T  is  a  handsome 
coat  on  a  handsome  person.  He  '11  do  you  no 
discredit." 


SHE  READS  OF  HERSELF        223 

"  It 's  to  be  hoped  that  he  '11  do  his  tailor  none. 
But  that 's  not  our  affair.  Will  you  have  him, 
Georgie?  " 

She  beamed  her  thanks.  "  I  should  like  him  to 
come  of  all  things.  That  is  so  nice  of  you.  I  '11 
put  a  card  in  with  my  note."  She  went  to  her 
desk  and  wrote. 

While  she  was  thus  engaged  Charles  came  in, 
saw  the  visitor,  and  advanced  with  formal  cour- 
tesy. "  Evening,  Charles,"  from  his  Grace. 
"  Ha,  Lancelot,  me  friend,"  from  the  poet,  who 
presumed  somewhat  in  such  an  address,  and 
showed  perhaps  a  shade  of  patronage  to  the  hus- 
band of  Egeria.  The  husband,  at  least,  was  sensi- 
tive to  it,  and  grew  very  cold. 

But  the  poet  dashed  in  with  the  volume,  the 
author,  the  past  rencontre  at  Vauxhall,  and  the 
future  preparing  "  through  the  courtesy  of  me 
noble  friend."  Charles  was  respectful  to  such  a 
gracious  act,  but  a  little  dry.  Georgiana,  busy 
with  her  note,  heard  everything,  and  felt  irritated. 
Her  warmth  cooled,  her  pleasure  was  dashed. 
She  sealed  the  letter  and  rose  to  give  it  to  the 
poet.  "  Please  give  this  to  Mr.  Poore  when  you 
see  him.  You  won't  of  course  make  it  a  burden 
to  your  conscience.  There  is  no  hurry." 

"Ah,  ma'am,"  cried  he,  "but  he'll  tear  it 
out  of  me  the  moment  I  'm  clear  of  the  door- 
step." 


224  MRS.  LANCELOT 

"Why,  is  he  on  the  doorstep?"  the  Duke 
asked.  "  Let 's  ask  him  up.  Charles,  did  you 
see  a  broad-shouldered  poet  by  the  railings?" 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Charles.  "  It  was  dark, 
and  I  was  preoccupied." 

"  So 's  he,  it  appears,"  the  Duke  chuckled. 
"  So 's  Georgie  here.  We  are  all  getting  pre- 
occupied. The  rogue  's  been  writing  odes  to  her 
eyebrows." 

"Indeed?"  Charles  said,  and  looked  at  his 
wife,  as  if  to  see,  Tom  afterwards  told  Gervase, 
whether  her  eyebrows  were  very  fine.  They  were, 
in  fact,  the  most  beautiful  pair  of  penciled  arcs 
you  ever  saw.  So  at  least  Gervase  said. 

Tom  took  his  leave  of  the  lady  and  tiptoed 
to  the  door.  His  coach,  he  said,  awaited  him  to 
take  him  to  Kensington.  Georgiana  put  Nausi- 
thoe  into  her  desk  and  locked  it  in. 

Charles  made  no  allusion  to  it  or  its  writer. 
He  dined  early  and  went  down  to  the  House. 
His  wife  went  out  to  two  parties,  met  the  Duke  at 
the  second  of  them  and  came  back  in  his  company 
to  her  empty  apartment.  He  left  her  there,  as 
the  custom  had  now  become,  with  a  pressed  hand 
and  a  kissed  cheek.  He  never  did  more  than  that, 
but  the  evident  fact  that  he  desired  more  was  a 
daily  excitement.  Sometimes,  it  is  true,  he  ex- 
claimed, half  humorously,  upon  her  prudery. 
"  Oh,  you  're  a  stiff  little  lady  I  'Pon  my  soul,  I 


SHE  READS  OF  HERSELF        225 

never  met  such  a  stickler  in  my  life.     Not  a  foot 
inside  the  door  after  eleven  o'clock!  " 

She  smiled  meekly,  deprecating  his  mockery. 
"  Dear  friend,  don't  tease  me.  I  'm  very  tired. 
And  you  know  what  I  try  to  do." 

1  You  don't  love  me  a  scrap,  my  dear.  And 
you  try  to  pretend  that  you  do.  That 's  your  diffi- 
culty." 

She  shook  her  head,  still  smiling  — "  No,  no, 
you  are  wrong.  You  know  that  I  like  to  be  with 
you.  You  are  so  wonderfully  good  to  me.  It  is 
beautiful,  how  good  you  are  to  me.  You  are  my 
best  friend.  You  know  I  'm  not  ungrateful. 
Oh !  "  and  she  was  urgent  here,  "  Oh,  do  believe 
me!" 

That  brought  him  up  short.  His  arm  would  be 
round  her.  "  Yes,  yes,  I  was  teasing  you,  as  you 
said.  My  pretty  one,  I  'm  an  old  ruffian.  Good 
night.  Off  with  you  to  bed." 

That  sort  of  thing  did  occur  now  and  again; 
but  not  upon  this  occasion,  when  her  noble  lover 
contented  himself  with  a  kiss  of  her  fingers. 

She  took  Nausithoe  to  bed  with  her,  uncon- 
scious that  she  had  been,  half  an  hour  earlier, 
under  the  burning  eye  of  her  author.  Much  of 
it  she  found  exceedingly  romantic,  some  of  it 
rather  shocking.  The  title  poem  made  her  won- 
der. There  was  no  doubting  its  high  seriousness. 
Whoever  this  unfortunate  lady  may  have  been, 


226  MRS.  LANCELOT 

loved  by  a  ghost  and  finding  in  his  ghostly  em- 
braces her  strange  sad  comfort,  the  poet  was  in 
deadly  earnest.  He  approached  his  task  in  the 
traditional  manner,  by  invocations: 

Queen  of  the  shadows,  aid  thou  me 
Telling  of  fond  Nausithoe, 
Thy  bosom's  friend,  who  for  thy  sake 
Gave  up  the  life  we  live  awake 
And  lived  the  dream  life.     .     .    . 

And  after  Proserpine  he  turns  to  a  greater  god- 
dess: 

Thee,  too,  O  Lady  of  the  South, 
Uranian  Kypris,  I  invoke, 
Lady  of  starry  space,  and  stroke 
Of  splendid  wing,  in  whose  strong  wake 
Stream  they  who,  filled  with  thee,  forsake 
The  clinging  clots  of  earth,  and  rise  — 
Lover  and  loved  —  to  thy  pure  skies, 
To  thy  blue  ream.    .    .    . 

This  made  her  heart  beat.  Do  lovers  stream 
in  the  wake  of  Venus  Urania?  Alas,  she  had 
never  so  streamed! 

She  read  on.  This  of  Nausithoe,  "  bosom's 
mate  "  of  Proserpine. 

the  delicate, 

Child-faced,  gray-eyed,  of  sober  gait, 
Of  burning  mind,  of  passion  pent 
To  image-making.     .     .    . 

Who  was  this  child-faced  woman,  whose  pas- 
sion driven  into  narrow  confines  drove  her  to  se- 


SHE  READS  OF  HERSELF        227 

cret  imagings  of  love  and  lovers?  She  felt  her 
cheeks  tingle.  Was  it  possible  that  this  broad- 
shouldered  wild  rescuer,  in  one  flash  of  his  hot 
eyes  had  read  into  the  very  deeps  of  her?  Was 
she  then  Nausithoe,  embraced  by  a  ghost?  If 
she  was,  then  what  could  be  made  of 

O  thou  meek 

And  gentle  vision,  let  me  tell 
Thy  beauties  o'er  I  love  so  well  ? 

Charged  with  foreknowledge,  reasoning  a  -priori, 
she  could  now  read  her  own  charms  in  the  poet's 
eyes.  He  seemed  to  adore  what  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  deprecate.  There  was  comfort  for  her 
in  such  flattery.  If  he  loved  her  because  she  was 
grave  and  cold;  if  he  loved  her  shy  form,  the 
pallor  of  her  lips,  her  thin  fingers  —  why,  then 
they  were  loveworthy !  She  raised  her  eyes  tim- 
idly to  the  glass  and  saw  herself  there  anew  — 
desired,  desirable,  not  obscure,  but,  rather,  too 
rarely  beautiful  to  be  discerned.  If  she  smiled  at 
such  high  praise  —  and  she  caught  herself  at  it  — 
there  was  no  mockery  of  the  poet  in  her  smile. 

All  this  preface  made  the  story  which  followed 
upon  it  of  absorbing  interest. 

Ah,  love,  ah,  maiden  delicate, 
How  shall  be  told  thy  bitter  fate? 
Remembered  joy,  Nausithoe! 

A  strange  and  poignant  tale,  wherein  she  could 
not  but  read  herself,  as  one  who  was 

15 


228  MRS.  LANCELOT 

as  all   sweet  women  are, 
Prudes  till  love  calls  them,  and  then  fierce 
for  getting  or  spending. 

She  read  on  and  read  all.  The  thought  possessed 
her,  filled  her  with  unquiet,  made  her  hot  with 
thought,  cold  with  fear,  made  her  eager,  made  her 
shamefast;  made  her  wonder,  made  her  long  — 
to  know  more  of  this  poet  who  seemed  to  know 
all  of  her,  and  to  be  so  sure. 

In  the  rest  she  was  conscious  of  anti-climax; 
though  it  must  be  owned  that  she  hunted,  it  is 
certain  that  she  could  n't  find  any  possible  refer- 
ence to  herself.  Which  of  these  ladies  could  she 
be?  Was  she  Myrtilla  who  said  the  Lord's 
Prayer  backwards  at  dawn  and  conjured  up  a 
Faun  who  made  love  to  her  ?  Was  she  Aglae  the 
wood-wife?  Was  she  Cynthia?  Cynthia  shocked 
her,  who  "  fed  on  groans,"  whose  "  love  and  hate 
alike  were  dreadful,  long,  insatiate."  Had  she 
that  in  her  allure  to  torture  a  poet?  Had  she 
then  tortured  Mr.  Poore?  She  wished  that  he 
had  contented  himself  with  Nausithoe.  It  was 
finally  as  Nausithoe  that  she  went  late  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   WAKE    HOUSE    BALL 

TO  this  brilliant  affair,  where  all  that  was  no- 
ble in  London  was  assembled  before  him, 
Gervase  Poore  the  unknown  and  the  truculent 
chose  to  come  late.  He  found  it  easy  to  explain 
to  himself  why  he  did  so.  But  little  Tom,  his 
friend,  the  pink  of  good-nature,  who  came  for 
him  even  unto  Clerkenwell,  and  found  him  writ- 
ing, in  his  shirt  and  breeches,  could  not  see  it. 

"  Odds  's  my  life,  Gervase,  have  ye  forgotten 
the  ball?"  Tom,  dapper  in  his  black  smalls,  silk 
stockings  and  pumps,  his  ruffled  shirt,  brooch  and 
oiled  hair,  looked  like  the  fairy  godfather  of  Cin- 
derella's brother  in  the  raftered  and  candle-lit 
garret.  The  writer  looked  up. 

"  I  Ve  got  her,  my  lovely  dear!  I  Ve  got  her 
here.  Listen,  you  pomander-box !  "  And  he 
read  — 

Seeing  your  love 

Sets  me  apart  as  one  to  whom  joy  can  come  never, 
Yet  made  glorious  as  one 
Who  stands  filled  with  the  light  of  the  sun 
(Since  I  behold  the  mercies  I  may  not  claim) 
I  will  raise  immortal  your  name. 

229 


230  MRS.  LANCELOT 

"  The  devil  you  will !  "  muttered  Tom,  who 
heartily  believed  it. 

All  that  you  are, 

All  that  God  hath  recessed  and  treasured  in  you  — 

The  hint  of  you  in  the  Spring, 

Your  glancing  carriage,  your  voice's  ring, 

Your  starry  face  and  the  fragile  rose  of  your  lips, 

Your  eyes'  sapphirine  blue; 

All   your   pure  soul, 

Keen  and  wondering,  true  and  eager  as  flame, 

Your  sober  thought  and  your  pride 

To  nurse  the  passion  you  hold  and  hide  — 

The  spirit  of  all  that  is  lovely  and  void  of  blame  — 

I  will  figure  the  whole. 

He  looked  up,  flushed,  and  frowning. 

"  Mighty  fine,  Gervase,"  said  his  friend,  and 
meant  it  — "  but  you  '11  figure  very  poorly  at 
Wake  House  at  this  rate.  Whatever  else  you 
figure,  you  won't  figure  there." 

"  I  am  coming,  Tom,  you  may  be  sure.  But 
I  'm  taking  this  with  me,  and  so  must  finish,  d'  ye 
see?" 

"  What  good  will  the  stuff  be  to  ye  at  Wake 
House,  ye  gossoon?  "  cried  Tom. 

"  I  'm  going  to  read  it  to  her,"  he  was  told. 

For  answer  to  this  he  received  a  long  stare. 
Tom  was  entirely  serious:  he  admired  no  more; 
he  was  alarmed,  even  shocked.  But  he  had  to 
admit  the  young  man's  force.  "  By  God,"  he  said 
finally,  "  I  believe  ye  '11  do  it." 


THE  WAKE  HOUSE  BALL        231 

And  then  he  collected  himself.  "  The  Lord 
be  your  friend,  Gervase  Poore,  for  you  '11  be  need- 
ing a  bigger  man  than  me.  But  seeing  that  such 
audaciousness  is  your  intent,  I  have  no  scruples 
in  leaving  you  to  find  your  way  into  the  castle. 
So  I  '11  take  myself  on." 

"  Good-by,  Tom,  good-by,"  said  Poore,  jump- 
ing up  to  clasp  his  friend.  "  God  bless  you  for 
the  kindest  heart  in  England. —  It  was  like  you  to 
come  — " 

"  And  it 's  like  you  to  refuse,  me  poor  boy," 
said  Tom.  "  Advice  is  wasted  on  ye,  I  know  — 
yet  I  have  it  in  me  heart  to  — " 

"  Tom,  Tom,  I  know  what  you  want  to  say. 
Now  see  here,  my  dear.  I  am  going  into  this 
headlong  —  just  as  I  did  before.  You  remember 
Vauxhall?  She  cowered  there,  my  beautiful! 
against  the  wall  —  shivering  at  the  mere  breath 
of  those  goat-footed  devils.  Tom,  she  cowers 
yet.  Man  —  men  —  Circe's  herd  —  are  snarling 
about  her,  licking  their  lips.  A  morsel  I  A  mor- 
sel !  A  morsel  for  a  moment's  lechery  1  O  God ! 
Do  you  say  the  age  of  Pan  is  over?  Do  you  say 
Pan  is  dead?  Why,  man,  every  woman  is  a 
hunted  nymph.  Every  man  is  a  satyr.  She  must 
be  plucked  out  of  this  —  to  flower  in  the  open, 
God  bless  her!  To  unfold  in  the  sun!  God 
made  this  world  to  be  a  garden  —  and  what  have 


232  MRS.  LANCELOT 

we  made  of  it?  Half  a  camp  and  half  a  lupa- 
nar !  "  He  wrung  his  friend's  hand.  Tom  went 
sobered  away.  .  .  . 

When  Gervase  arrived  it  was  past  eleven 
o'clock.  The  tall  footmen  had  relaxed  their 
rigidity  and  lounged  in  the  hall.  Gervase  strode 
through  them.  Divested  of  his  cloak,  he  climbed 
the  stair,  which  was  broad  and  marble,  and  fol- 
lowing the  sound  of  music,  unannounced  entered 
the  first  of  the  rooms.  It  was  very  full.  It  blazed 
with  light.  Uniforms,  stars,  blue  ribbons 
abounded.  Plumed  ladies,  diamonds,  a  thick  and 
scented  air,  a  continuous  chattering  sound  of 
voices,  talking  vivaciously  of  nothing,  laughing 
shrilly  and  foolishly  —  all  this  he  marked  as  he 
stood  calm  in  the  doorway,  hunting  down  face 
after  face.  He  knew  no  one.  Charles  Lancelot 
was,  in  fact,  there,  prim-faced,  whiskered  and  tall; 
but  Gervase  knew  nothing  about  him.  He  looked 
for  Georgiana  with  a  beating  heart,  but  without 
conviction.  It  was  only  the  idea  that  she  might 
be  there  which  made  his  heart  beat.  Had  she 
been,  he  was  sure  that  he  would  have  been  certi- 
fied by  his  familiar. 

Next,  he  sought  the  Duke,  whose  face  and 
trim  figure  were  common  property.  Last,  Tom 
Moore  —  his  generous  friend.  No,  there  was 
no  man.  Through  the  door  at  the  further  end 
he  saw  pass  and  repass,  drifting  like  showered 


THE  WAKE  HOUSE  BALL        233 

leaves  in  a  wind,  the  dancers.  He  would  look 
for  her  there,  and  shouldered  his  way  through  to 
the  grouped  nobility  with  no  more  ceremony 
than  if  they  had  been  Dick  and  Harry,  Bill  and 
Jack  round  the  orchestra  at  Vauxhall.  He  was 
maladroit,  unceremonious.  Manners  he  had  none, 
but  shoulders  he  had,  and  great  inches,  and  a  fine 
head.  He  was  flushed  deeply,  his  bright  blue  eyes 
burned,  his  brows  scowled.  He  was  much  ob- 
served—  and  "Who  the  devil's  that?"  came 
from  more  than  one  mouth.  But  he  looked  at 
nobody,  asked  no  pardons,  named  no  permissions, 
and  reached  his  doorway. 

The  great  ball-room,  lit  by  some  thousand  wax 
candles,  dazzled  him  for  a  moment.  He  was 
conscious  only  of  white  and  scarlet  drifting  and 
swirling  by;  of  the  slipping  of  countless  feet,  of 
the  swish-swish  of  silk.  By  and  by  he  began  to 
distinguish,  and  was  then  conscious  of  profound 
moral  revolt.  He  was  aware  of  white  forms  of 
women,  bare-breasted,  who  seemed  aswoon  as 
they  were  wafted  about  —  their  bosoms  crushed 
against  the  men  who  held  them,  their  heads 
averted,  their  eyes  half-closed,  their  lips  parted. 
Hither  and  thither,  round  and  round  they  were 
swept  by  their  captors  —  whose  faces  were  fierce, 
high-colored,  bright-eyed;  who  triumphed,  who 
laughed  and  tossed  their  heads;  who  capered  and 
leaped.  To  every  prancing  satyr  his  bound 


234  MRS.  LANCELOT 

nymph;  what  Maenad  revel  could  be  wilder  than 
this?  And  she,  his  goddess,  was  one  of  these! 
He  felt  that  the  blood  in  his  heart,  insurgent, 
flowed  up  and  filled  his  eyes.  The  white  field 
swam  all  red.  He  saw  no  more;  but  closed  down 
his  eyelids  and  prayed  to  the  Unknown  God  — 
and  a  vision  came  over  him  of  a  quiet  valley, 
wooded  slopes  to  the  margin  of  a  slow-winding 
broad  river;  of  swallows  in  a  golden  evening  light, 
and  afar  off  the  tinkle  of  sheep  bells.  There  on 
a  greensward  he  saw  his  lady  stand,  "  the  little 
slim  thing"  in  a  white  gown.  She  looked  down 
the  valley,  shading  her  eyes  from  the  sun.  The 
sun  sank,  the  shadows  lengthened. 

Night  gathers,  and  the  crow 
Takes  wing  to  the  murky  wood.    .    .    . 

Soon  all  was  in  one  level,  shadowless  light.  And 
there  she  stood,  smiling  with  lips  and  eyes,  and 
held  out  her  hand  for  him  to  take.  Together 
they  turned  and  walked  by  the  river.  There  was 
no  need  for  speech. 

The  music  brayed  and  pounded;  the  swoon- 
ing, caught-up  women  drifted  about.  Fine  young 
men  stamped  their  feet  as  they  capered,  and 
Gervase  stood  at  the  door  prophesying  in  his 
dreams. 

He  came  to  himself  with  a  start.  She  was  not 
here,  could  not  be  in  this  very  hell.  There  were 


THE  WAKE  HOUSE  BALL        235 

rooms  beyond,  he  saw,  and  he  would  go.  Moving, 
he  suddenly  brought  up  short  in  collision. 
"  Mercy  on  us,  't  is  Gervase !  "  His  cheerful 
friend,  breathless  and  triumphant,  his  arm  still 
lightly  upon  the  waist  of  his  partner,  beamed  upon 
him. 

"  Ye  nearly  drove  me  to  perdition,  Gervase. 
Permit  me  to  present  you  —  Me  young  friend 
Mr.  Poore,  the  famous  poet.  The  Lady  Geral- 
dine  O'Meara." 

A  fair  lady  bowed  sweetly,  and  Gervase,  only 
half  recovered,  inclined  his  fine  head. 

It  was  Tom  who  did  the  talking,  for  the  Lady 
Geraldine  had  nothing  to  say,  and  Poore  did  not 
even  look  at  her.  She,  on  the  other  hand,  freely 
admired  him.  Meantime  Tom  chattered  and 
glowed.  "  A  fine  sight,  Gervase !  *  And  bright 
the  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave 
men  I '  'T  was  Byron  said  it.  Me  poor  friend, 
me  poor  dead  friend.  What  a  hand  at  a  pen 
he  had  —  a  mad  thing  entirely.  He  used  it  as 
a  sword,  and  cut  figures  out  of  his  heart  with  it. 
Lady  Geraldine,  did  ye  ever  see  Byron  now? 
Me  friend,  Mr.  Poore  here,  has  the  scowl  of 
him."  Lady  Geraldine  smiled  kindly  and  shook 
her  head.  She  had  no  conversation.  But  conver- 
sation was  not  required  of  any  of  Mr.  Moore's 
acquaintance.  "  The  Duchess  of  Richmond  of 
that  occasion,"  he  ran  on,  "  was  a  little  woman 


236  MRS.  LANCELOT 

with  a  very  bright  eye.  Our  noble  host  here  told 
me  that  she  carried  it  off  superbly,  superbly;  his 
own  word.  '  Let  the  music  go  on,'  she  said;  '  for 
God's  sake,  let  us  behave  ourselves.'  And  she 
got  'em  all  out  of  the  place,  and  kept  the  thing 
going  until  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.  And  they 
heard  the  cannon  as  they  went  home  by  daylight 
—  and  the  troops  were  pouring  out  all  the  time. 
Wonderful,  wonderful !  Gervase,  have  you  made 
your  bow?  Well,  a  word  in  your  ear  —  you'll 
find  your  Cynthia  in  the  little  drawing-room,  two 
rooms  away.  She  don't  dance,  you  must  know. 
Lady  Geraldine,  shall  we  have  another  turn? 
You  will  ?  You  are  the  soul  of  gallantry,  and  I  'm 
not  the  man  to  deny  myself."  He  waved  his 
gloved  hand,  engaged  the  lady  and  bounced  her 
away.  Gervase  pushed  through  the  throng. 

From  the  next  doorway,  where  he  stood  with 
his  back  to  the  dancers,  he  saw  her.  She  was  two 
rooms  away;  but  he  saw  her  immediately,  and 
held  his  breath.  For  a  moment,  for  the  first  mo- 
ment of  his  life  —  he  knew  despair.  He  felt  him- 
self stultified,  awake  at  last  to  the  world  as  it  was. 
She  looked,  he  thought,  like  a  Bacchante.  Lady 
Hamilton  must  have  looked  like  that.  If  this  was 
what  they  had  made  of  her,  then  God  did  not  live 
and  reign. 

A  numbness  took  him,  as  he  felt  his  heart  go 
cold  within  him,  cold  and  dead.  It  had  the  weight 


THE  WAKE  HOUSE  BALL        237 

of  a  dead  thing,  and  seemed  to  be  dragging  him 
down. 

Mrs.  Lancelot  half  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  table 
and  swung  her  foot.  Her  dress,  which  was  thin, 
close  and  clinging,  was  dragged  up  a  little  to  ease 
her  knee,  and  as  her  foot  swung  forward  her 
stocking  was  revealed  to  some  distance.  Nobody 
of  those  about  her  could  be  aware  of  it,  but  Ger- 
vase  at  his  distance  away  could  not  but  see  it. 
The  attitude,  the  action,  entirely  innocent  and 
unconscious  as  they  were,  wore  for  him  a  shocking 
air.  They  were  of  a  piece  with  the  rest.  This 
young  hermit  of  Clerkenwell  was  mortally 
wounded. 

And  as  if  she  did  what  she  should  not,  to  him 
her  attire  was  abhorrent  —  her  attire  and  the  ab- 
scence  of  it.  Her  dress  was,  in  fact,  becoming 
in  its  daring.  It  was  of  thin  silk,  of  a  dull  Pom- 
peian  red,  deeply  hemmed  and  fringed  with  gold. 
In  her  hair  she  wore  a  gold  wreath.  The  gown 
clung  to  her  and  revealed  her  form,  thin,  but  ex- 
quisitely proportioned  to  her  slender  build.  It 
was  low  in  the  neck  and  showed  freely  half  her 
bosom.  But  its  color  took  what  little  she  had 
clean  away.  She  looked  almost  wan.  And  in 
this  ivory  pale  face,  her  large  eyes  burned  black, 
and  her  lips,  which  she  had  perhaps  colored, 
looked  scarlet.  She  was  happy,  or  excited;  for 
her  eyes  laughed,  and  her  teeth  flashed.  She  was 


238  MRS.  LANCELOT 

surrounded  by  a  demilune  of  six  or  seven  men  of 
various  ages  —  and  among  them,  conspicuous  by 
his  white  head,  square  strong  face,  erect  carriage 
and  air  of  authority,  was  the  Duke  of  Devizes, 
with  the  blue  ribbon  and  star  of  his  order.  An- 
other gartered  grandee  was  there  also;  and  there 
were  young  men  about  her,  splendid,  groomed 
creatures,  one  of  whom  with  great  vivacity  was 
paying  her  open  court.  And  his  "  little  slim 
thing  "  sat  swinging  her  foot,  painted  and  pow- 
dered, and  listened  and  thrilled  at  the  flattery. 
Bought  and  sold  like  a  Circassian  —  O  Christ! 

Gervase  clenched  his  teeth,  clenched  his  fists, 
and  as  if,  like  the  God  he  invoked,  he  was  about 
to  scourge  the  money-changers  out  of  the  temple, 
he  pushed  directly  forward  to  his  business. 

A  few  strides  brought  him  within  range,  and 
then  she  saw  him.  Not  only  did  she  see  him,  and 
know  him  at  once,  but  she  saw  that  he  was  dis- 
turbed, and  on  her  account,  that  he  was  about  to 
visit  his  displeasure  upon  her,  that  she,  somehow, 
deserved  it,  and  that  it  became  her  at  least,  to 
meet  it  more  than  half  way.  All  these  feelings, 
half  formed,  rising  like  figures  out  of  mist  and 
sinking  back  again,  were  within  her  in  the  few 
seconds  she  had  to  spare.  Her  sparkle  and  wax- 
light  glitter  left  her;  her  face  looked  tragic  in  its 
pale  vacuity;  her  eyes  loomed.  She  slid  off  the 
table  on  which  she  was  airily  perched  and  ad- 


THE  WAKE  HOUSE  BALL        239 

vanced  immediately  to  meet  Gervase.  The  men 
about  her  sprang  aside  to  give  her  place.  All 
observed  the  oncomer,  the  Duke  curiously,  after 
his  manner. 

Of  course  it  may  have  been  charity  on  her  part, 
pure  benevolence;  recognizing  him,  she  may  have 
guessed  that  he  was  unfriended  and  seen  that  he 
was  disturbed.  It  may  have  been  so,  but  I  doubt 
it.  Her  own  feelings  of  detected  unworthiness  can- 
not be  gainsaid,  her  own  acceptance  of  his  reason- 
able displeasure,  her  own  readiness  to  be  chastened. 
As  for  him,  he  was  so  possessed  by  his  passion  that 
he  had  no  coherent  thought  apart  from  it. 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  greeted  him  by 
name. — "Mr.  Poore?"  He  did  not  see  the 
hand;  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  own,  intently, 
piercing,  as  she  felt,  to  the  soul.  But  he  muttered 
something,  seemed  rather  to  be  stemming  a  tor- 
rent of  words  with  his  mouth  than  framing  their 
utterance ;  she  caught,  "  I  must  speak  to  you  — 
not  here  —  this  hateful  place  —  let  us  go  —  let 
us  go  — "  Without  a  word  she  took  command. 
"  Yes,  of  course.  Give  me  your  arm,  please." 
She  put  her  hand  within  it  as  she  spoke,  and 
urged  him  gently  away.  As  they  went  out  of  the 
doorway  she  turned,  nodding  and  smiling,  to  the 
Duke,  keenly  observant  of  her.  He  bowed. 
Then  she  hurried  her  steps,  almost  running  by  the 
side  of  her  fierce  escort. 


EXTRAORDINARY    CONVERSATION 

SOME  prevision  of  the  crisis  in  her  soul's  af- 
fairs must  have  prompted  her  to  the  bold  step 
she  took,  when  she  guided  the  burning  and  irresist- 
ible progress  of  the  poet  to  her  own  drawing-room 
in  this  great  house.  Neither  of  them  had  spoken 
throughout  the  transit;  that  is,  their  lips  had 
framed  no  words.  But  messages  flew  between 
them  —  without  a  word  spoken  her  soul  said  to 
his,  "  Ah,  I  know  what  you  have  to  say  to  me ! 
I  know,  I  know  that  you  love  me.  What  am  I 
to  do?  You  have  a  wisdom  not  of  this  world 
where  all  my  schooling  has  been.  Teach  me, 
teach  me ;  I  will  learn."  And  from  him  came  the 
stern  admonition,  "  You !  What  have  you  to  do 
in  this  horde  of  japing  satyrs?  Are  you  Circe,  to 
make  men  swine?  Do  you  play  with  hyenas, 
apes,  and  jackals?  What  has  your  nature  to  do 
with  these?  "  And  hers  cried,  "  Teach  me,  teach 
me !  "  and  his,  touched  with  pity,  replied,  "  The 
way  is  hard  for  you." 

In  her  room  she  sat  and  looked  at  her  hands, 
as  one  twisted  round  and  about  a  ring  upon  a 

240 


POORE  TO  THE  POINT          241 

finger  of  the  other.  He,  with  his  arms  folded, 
stood  frowning  above  her,  breathing  fast,  trying 
to  bring  his  heart  back  into  its  stride,  as  with  the 
rein  one  schools  a  galloping  horse.  Her  own 
emotion  was  insistent,  but  her  social  instinct  was 
awake,  and  it  was  she,  under  the  guiding  of  that, 
who  first  broke  the  beating  silence. 

'  You  came  very  late.  I  expected  to  see  you 
earlier." 

"  I  came  when  I  could.     I  was  writing." 

"  Ah !     Another  poem  ?     Your  poems  are  beau- 
tiful." 

"  It  was  you  who  made  them  so." 

"  I  can't  think  that.     Your  poetry  is  a  part  of 
yourself." 

"  It  was  in  me ;  but  you  called  it  out.     There 
is  nothing  in  my  book  which  is  not  of  you." 

She  was  in  command  by  this  time,  felt  that  she 
could  smile  at  his  foolishness. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  realize  that.     Was  '  Leda  ' 
about  me?  " 

"  No,    of   course   not.     But   those   things    are 
nothing.     They  were  done  long  ago." 

"  I  should  n't  like  to  think  that  I  inspired  them." 

"  You  did  not.     I  spoke  of  what  was  good." 

"  Of  '  Nausithoe  '  ?  " 

*  Yes.  That  is  you.  That  is  your  life  —  a 
life  in  shadow,  clasping,  clasped  by,  a  shadow.  A 
life  of  unreality." 


242  MRS.  LANCELOT 

"I  was  sure  that  you  did  not  approve  —  that 
you  were  displeased.  What  right  have  you  to  be 
pleased  or  displeased  with  my  life?  " 

"  The  right  that  one  who  loves  you  has  to  be 
pleased  or  displeased  with  what  pleases  or  dis- 
pleases you.  You  are  not  happy,  you  know  your 
life  to  be  vain  — " 

She  lifted  up  her  head  quickly.  She  was 
flushed.  "  Ah,  you  must  not  say  that.  You  have 
no  possible  right.  And  it  is  not  true.  I  have  my 
duties  to  perform.  I  believe  that  I  do  them. 
They  are  not,  perhaps,  in  your  world  —  but  they 
are  very  real.  You  are  unjust  to  me." 

It  was  one  of  those  moments  when  the  soul 
must  have  its  way;  and  perhaps  Poore  was  one  of 
those  persons  who  can  say  without  offense  what 
others  can  never  approach;  one  of  those  persons 
absolutely  serious  and  occupied  with  the  affair  of 
the  moment. 

He  said  —  and  she  was  not  offended  — "  You 
have  also  a  duty  to  yourself.  Unless  you  per- 
form it,  you  are  maimed,  and  cannot  avail  to  any- 
body. Two  men  love  you,  but  you  love  neither. 
How  can  a  woman  avail  unless  she  love?  It 
is  her  whole  nature.  It  is  her  function.  With- 
out it  she  is  a  phantom,  an  empty  vase.  Lovely 
you  are,  but  you  are  empty.  Fill  yourself. 
Love." 

She  was  not  offended,  but  she  was  very  troubled. 


POORE  TO  THE  POINT          243 

She  faltered  and  made  to  look  up  at  him.  Then 
she  found  that  she  could  not  do  it. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  me?"  she  asked  of 
her  fingers. 

"  Everything,"  said  Poore.  "  I  have  seen  you 
countless  times  since  I  saw  you  first.  I  think  that 
for  three  years,  whenever  you  have  been  in  Lon- 
don, I  have  seen  you  every  night  of  the  week." 

"  I  don't  understand  —  that  is  not  possible  — 
I  have  never  seen  you." 

"  You  have  looked  full  upon  me  sometimes,  but 
you  have  not  seen  me.  I  have  seen  you." 

Curiosity  was  now  awake.  She  forgot  her 
bashfulness.  "When  have  you  seen  me? 
Where?" 

"  I  have  seen  you  at  your  parties.  I  have  seen 
you  go  in  and  come  out.  I  have  stood  with  the 
outcasts  at  the  doors  and  waited  for  you.  In  rain, 
snow,  sleet,  and  slush  —  on  hot  summer  nights,  in 
fog  and  mist,  I  have  been  there.  Sometimes  you 
have  been  to  two,  sometimes  to  three  great  houses. 
I  have  followed  you  —  by  scent,  I  believe.  You 
have  a  fragrance  which  I  could  follow  over  the 
world.  I  have  heard  you  speak  —  a  word  here, 
a  word  there.  I  have  heard  you  laugh,  and  have 
wept  to  hear  you  —  for  the  laughter  was  thin, 
from  the  head  and  not  the  heart.  I  know  the 
turns  of  your  head,  the  glances  of  your  eyes  —  I 
tell  you  that  I  know  everything  about  you.  You 

16 


244  MRS.  LANCELOT 

are  not  yet  born.  If  you  have  a  soul  it 'resides  not 
in  your  lovely  body,  but  hovers  on  the  outside, 
seeking  an  entry,  beating  with  its  hands  at  the 
door  of  your  heart.  You  are  the  slave  of  your 
circumstance  —  you  cannot  do  otherwise  than  be 
so  because  you  do  not  know  of  your  servitude. 
You  know  neither  your  powers  nor  your  rights. 
The  one  could  demand  the  other,  and  exact  them. 
But  you  drift,  a  phantom  —  loving  not  at  all, 
loved  phantom-wise.  Two  men  love  you,  I  say, 
but  you  can  satisfy  neither.  Two  men?  How 
many  more  love  your  delicate,  your  exquisite  per- 
son? But  one  man  loves  your  soul,  that  lovely 
winged  thing  fluttering  without  you,  a-cold,  trying 
to  get  in." 

She  sat  immovable  under  this  wild  apostrophe, 
immovable  as  to  the  limbs;  but  her  short-rising 
breast  and  little  involuntary  starts  and  tremors 
betrayed  her.  She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  for  one 
moment.  Her  lips  moved,  and  she  said,  scarcely 
above  a  whisper,  "  You  must  not  say  so.  You 
must  not  love  me.  You  have  no  right — " 

"No  right?"  asked  he.  "Do  you  deny  me 
the  right  to  live?  And  how  can  I  live  but  by 
love?  And  how  can  I  help  loving  what  I  see  so 
excellently  loveworthy?  That  which  I  adore  in 
you  was  not  sold  with  the  rest.  Men  do  not  chaf- 
fer the  light  of  the  sun,  or  the  west  wind  that 
blows  over  pasture  fields,  or  the  rain  that 


POORE  TO  THE  POINT          245 

washes  the  flanks  of  the  hills.  They  fence  in  the 
mountains  and  call  them  theirs;  but  the  wind  blow- 
eth  where  it  listeth ;  and  blows  from  you  to  me  — 
and  in  that  air  I  live  and  have  my  being.  Do  you 
deny  me  that?  " 

She  would  not.  "  No,  no  —  that  would  be  ab- 
surd. But  —  I  am  nobody.  You  cannot  love  me 
without  — " 

"Credentials?  Applying  with  all  forms  ob- 
served to  your  proprietors?  No,  I  can't  do  that. 
But  I  tell  you  that  I  know  you  all.  I  have  access 
to  that  in  you  which  the  world  sees  nothing  of. 
For  at  least  I  am  a  real  man.  I  dare  to  love 
Nausithoe  really,  and  they,  shadows !  —  as  shad- 
ows." 

He  spoke  in  deadly  earnest,  with  a  cold  inten- 
sity rather  terrible.  Nothing  but  his  obvious  sin- 
cerity could  have  excused  him  in  her  eyes  —  in 
the  clear  light  of  that  she  understood  him,  ac- 
cepted him,  and  believed  him.  She  did  not  speak 
for  some  moments,  but  sat  turning  her  ring  about 
on  her  finger,  not  displeased,  rather  pleased  in 
fact,  conscious  of  a  certain  elation  at  being  the 
chosen  of  so  singular  a  person,  conscious  also  of 
having  been  recaptured  by  the  genius  of  Nausi- 
thoe. That  was  an  elation  of  the  kind  which  the 
Duke's  notice  had  afforded  her  long  ago,  was  per- 
haps no  more,  but  was  certainly  no  less.  Added 
to  that,  she  was  conscious  of  trouble.  His  vehe- 


246  MRS.  LANCELOT 

mence  disturbed  her.  She  did  not  understand 
him,  yet  she  felt  that  his  passion  for  her  was  not 
of  the  kind  which  the  Duke,  say,  professed.  The 
Duke,  she  fancied,  had  of  her  what  he  was  enti- 
tled to  have,  and  anything  more  that  he  desired 
of  her  was  not  lawful,  and  not  pleasant.  She 
knew  that  the  Duke's  relations  with  women  had 
not  been  generally  very  pleasant.  But  this  young 
man's  passion  was  different.  There  was  perhaps 
some  sanction  for  his  professions.  He  had  in- 
sight: she  felt  that  he  knew  her  —  knew  her  bet- 
ter than  either  of  the  men  with  whom  she  lived  — 
better  than  either  of  them  ever  could  know  her. 
He  knew,  for  instance,  that  she  needed  love.  Ah, 
how  did  he  know  that,  when  until  she  read  his 
poem  she  had  not  known  it  herself?  Positively, 
she  found  it  out  from  his  assertion  of  it  as  a  fact. 
Love!  Love!  Not  to  be  loved,  but  to  love. 
There  was  her  need.  She  was  hungry.  She  was 
starved.  Well,  if  this  young  man,  uncompromis- 
ing, fierce,  abrupt,  bad-mannered  —  if  he  were  to 
love  her,  might  she  not  love  him?  She  turned  it 
awfully  in  her  mind.  It  was  a  glowing  speculation 
there  —  no  more  than  that.  And  she  had  a  sus- 
picion that  if  she  did  come  to  love  him,  he  would 
be  extraordinarily  tender  to  her:  and  then  she 
had  another,  that  if  she  did  come  to  love  him,  she 
could  make  him  happy.  Her  eyes  were  wide  and 
unblinking  as  she  pondered  these  things. 


POORE  TO  THE  POINT          247 

She  it  was,  nevertheless,  who  broke  the  silence; 
for  Poore,  having  said  what  he  had,  said  no  more, 
but  stood  with  his  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece,  look- 
ing down  at  her  and  scowling  manfully. 

She  said,  "  You  have  told  me  very  strange 
things.  I  don't  know  what  to  answer.  I  ought 
to  be  angry,  but  I  am  not.  I  am  sure  that  you 
mean  what  you  say,  or  believe  that  you  do.  I 
don't  wish  to  be  unreasonable,  and  I  hope  that 
you  will  not  be.  What  shall  you  say  if  I  ask  you 
not  to  watch  me  come  and  go  to  parties?  " 

He  replied  without  moving.  "  If  you  insist,  I 
shall  have  to  obey  you.  But  you  will  be  making 
things  hard  for  me.  Reflect.  I  shan't  see  you 
at  all  on  those  terms." 

"Won't  you  come  here?"  she  asked  him. 
"  Should  you  refuse  if  I  —  ?  " 

He  raised  his  eyebrows.  "  This  is  the  Duke's 
house,  I  suppose?  " 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  this  is  my  husband's  house." 

"  I  dislike  your  husband  more  than  I  can  say," 
he  told  her.  She  was  very  patient  with  him. 

"  That  is  not  very  polite  of  you.  He  has  done 
you  no  harm." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  but  he  has  done  you  untold 
harm.  He  has  married  you,  used  you,  and  now 
resents  it.  '  It ! '  He  does  worse.  He  resents 
you.  He  is  wounded,  he  is  jealous.  Do  you  call 
such  a  man  a  lover  ?  He  loves  himself." 


248  MRS.  LANCELOT 

"  Hush,  please.  I  cannot  hear  you.  My  hus- 
band is  very  good  to  me.  He  respects  me." 

"  I  deny  that,"  said  Poore.  "  He  respects  him- 
self far  too  much.  He  does  n't  even  know  what  he 
has  done  amiss." 

She  did  not  ask  him  what  that  was  —  because 
she  knew.  Womanlike,  she  turned  to  safer  top- 
ics —  safer  because  they  affected  him  personally, 
and  would  therefore  draw  him  off  Charles. 

"  About  your  vigils,"  she  cried.  "  Will  you 
give  them  up?  " 

He  was  silent  until  she  lifted  her  head  and 
looked  her  appeal  into  his  eyes. 

"  Don't  ask  me  that,"  he  said  then.  "  I  have 
no  other  means  of  seeing  you.  And  if  I  see  you 
now  —  after  to-night  —  perhaps  you  will  some- 
times recognize  me."  He  waited.  "  Do  you 
think  that  you  will?  " 

She  smiled  faintly,  nodded  her  head  very 
slightly.  "  Perhaps."  She  grew  more  positive. 
"  Yes,  I  think  that  I  shall.  But  I  shall  hate  to 
think  of  you  there  —  with  those  wretched  peo- 
ple." 

"  Ah,"  he  said.  "  They  are  not  so  wretched  as 
the  people  in  this  great  house.  At  least  they  can 
afford  to  be  real.  The  people  here  —  as  I  see 
them  — "  She  suddenly  touched  him  by  a  look. 
Her  eyes,  full  of  anxiety,  reached  his. 

"  I  hear  my  husband  coming.     I  shall  present 


POORE  TO  THE  POINT          249 

you  to  him,"  she  said  quickly.     "  Please  be  kind  to 
me,"  he  read  in  her  look. 

"  I  will  do  anything  in  the  world  for  you,"  he 
told  her. 

Charles  entered.  His  eyes  made  no  sign.  He 
came  sedately  to  where  she  sat. 

'  The  Duke  has  been  asking  for  you,  my  dear. 
I  had  no  notion  where  you  were ;  but  he  suggested 
that  you  were  here." 

"  Let  me  introduce  Mr.  Poore  to  you,"  she 
said.  "  This  is  my  husband,  Mr.  Poore." 

Charles  was  courteous,  held  out  his  hand.  "  I 
am  pleased  to  make  your  acquaintance.  Your 
poems  have  merit." 

Poore  accepted  the  greeting.  "  Thank  you. 
It  is  kind  of  you  to  say  so."  He  turned  to  Geor- 
giana. 

"  I  have  kept  you  from  your  affairs.  That 's 
bad.  You  have  been  more  than  kind  to  me." 

She  denied  that.  "  No  indeed.  You  have  — 
interested  me  very  much.  I  hope  you  will  come 
to  see  us  before  we  leave  town." 

He  bowed  stiffly.  She  got  up  and  took  his  arm. 
"  Let  us  go  back.  You  must  be  presented  to  the 
Duke." 

Charles  said,  "  The  Duke  will  be  charmed. 
He  is  in  the  library,  my  dear."  He  opened  the 
door  for  her. 

She  asked  him,  "  Don't  you  come  with  us?  " 


250  MRS.  LANCELOT 

"  No,  I  have  work  to  do,  I  fear.  Besides  I  am 
out  of  my  element  in  a  ballroom." 

"  So  then  must  I  be,"  she  laughed.  "  For  I 
never  dance,  as  you  know."  Charles  bowed  to 
her. 

"  My  dear,  you  would  grace  any  room  you 
entered.  I  think,  if  you  will  permit,  I  will  say 
good  night."  She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he 
kissed  it.  He  bowed  to  Poore,  who  bent  his 
head. 

The  Duke,  in  the  library  with  a  few  people, 
gave  Poore  his  usual  allowance  of  fingers.  "  How 
do,  how  do.  You  're  a  monopolist,  I  see.  So  am 
I,  and  that 's  where  you  and  I  shall  quarrel." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Gervase. 

"  You  're  a  heavy-weight,  I  judge.  Nine  stun 
six  is  about  my  figure.  I  Ve  a  good  wind,  Mr. 
Poore.  But  I  don't  write  poetry.  Now  let  me 
tell  you  this.  I  thought  yours  devilish  good  in 
places.  I  used  to  read  Propertius  when  I  was  a 
lad.  I  thought  you  had  him  very  neatly.  *  Nau- 
sithoe  *  I  don't  care  for,  though  Mrs.  Lancelot 
here  gave  it  some  tears,  I  believe.  What 's  your 
profession,  Mr.  Poore?" 

"  I  am  a  lawyer,"  said  Gervase.  The  Duke 
approved. 

"  That 's  a  healthy  trade.  That  needs  preci- 
sion. It  won't  teach  you  rhyming,  but  it  will 


POORE  TO  THE  POINT          251 

teach  you  the  advantage  of  definite  statement. 
You  have  to  know  what  you  want  in  the  law." 

"  I  think  that  I  have  learned  that,"  said  Ger- 
vase.  Georgiana  agreed  with  him.  She  watched 
him  now  and  then,  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  in  side- 
long flashes  of  her  eyes  —  which  were  very  bright 
—  and  approved  of  him.  The  Duke  seemed  to 
have  observed  her  animation,  for  vhe  commented 
upon  it. 

"  What 's  Mr.  Poore  been  telling  you  ?  Pleas- 
ant things,  I  suspect." 

"  Very  pleasant,"  said  Georgiana. 

The  great  man  nodded  his  head  quite  amiably, 
then  turned  to  the  approval  of  the  poet. 

"  It  was  you,  I  believe,  who  forestalled  every 
one  of  us  in  Mrs.  Lancelot's  rescue.  It  was  at 
Vauxhall,  if  I  am  right.  You  have  an  arm  which 
I  envy  you  —  but  you  were  prompt  when  we  were 
not." 

"  I  happened  to  be  there,"  said  Gervase. 
"  That  was  my  good  fortune." 

"  You  rescued  her  from  very  unpleasant  com- 
panions." 

"  I  should  always  be  ready  for  that." 

"  Of  course.  But  we  may  hope  that  she  won't 
need  such  strenuous  championship." 

"  I  hope  that  also." 

Georgiana  felt  the  implication  in  his  words, 
and  shifted  the  ground. 


252  MRS.  LANCELOT 

"  Tell  me  of  your  book,"  she  said.  "  Have 
the  reviewers  been  kind  to  you?  " 

Gervase  smoothed  his  brow.  "  I  think  not  very 
kind.  I  have  the  misfortune  to  live  in  London. 
They  call  me  a  Cockney  poet,  and  think  they  have 
said  all.  They  impute  politics." 

She  laughed.  "  I  don't  read  politics  in  your 
poetry." 

'  There  is  nothing  of  it  —  unless  a  wish  to  see 
men  free  be  political."  The  Duke  glanced  at  him. 

"  We  don't  talk  so  much  of  freedom  here,  Mr. 
Poore,  as  of  duty." 

"  That,"  said  Gervase,  "  seems  to  me  the  chief 
duty." 

"  Your  Nausithoe  used  her  freedom  in  a  strange 
way."  That  was  from  the  Duke. 

"  She  never  had  any,  according  to  me,"  Gervase 
said.  "  She  was  a  slave  from  the  beginning  — 
the  slave  of  assumptions." 

Georgiana,  with  bright  eyes,  defended  herself. 

"  I  don't  read  that.  Nausithoe  chose  to  go 
down  to  Hades  with  Proserpine." 

"  Proserpine,"  said  Gervase,  his  eyes  full  upon 
her,  "  assumed  that  she  would  go.  She  took  it 
for  granted,  and  Nausithoe  accepted  it.  She  had 
no  soul.  She  was  not  born." 

"  According  to  you,"  said  the  Duke  dryly,  "  the 
poor  lady  never  was." 

"  The  poem  is  unfinished,  my  lord,"  Gervase  re- 


POORE  TO  THE  POINT          253 

plied.  "  It  is  my  intention  to  show  her  gaining  of 
her  soul."  Georgiana  had  nothing  to  say  to  this 
delicate  topic,  and  the  Duke,  who  had  now  had 
enough  of  Mr.  Poore,  turned  to  her  with  others  in 
which  the  young  man  could  have  no  part.  Had 

she  seen  Lady  A ?     She  ought  to  be  spoken 

with.  And  would  Georgiana  go  to  the  D — — s' 
ball  on  the  27th?  He  had  promised  to  look  in. 
Gervase,  who  stood  his  ground  uneasily,  and 
not  for  long,  took  his  leave  stiffly,  hiding  but  ill 
the  despair  that  was  in  him.  She  noticed  that, 
and  was  rather  more  empressee  than  her  wont  was. 
Her  eyes  sought  his,  and  saw  the  storm  in  them. 
Before  that  she  was  powerless,  and  only  anxious 
that  he  should  go.  Their  looks  met;  but  she  was 
very  guarded.  He  could  read  nothing  in  her 
which  betokened  the  slightest  consciousness  of 
what  had  so  lately  passed  between  them.  "  Good 
God!  "  he  cried  in  his  bitterness;  "  is  it  possible 
that  she  is  heartless?  A  few  moments  ago,  and 
she  heard  me  tell  her  of  my  love.  She  sat  and  let 
the  words  beat  upon  her;  she  sat  a  Danae  to  the 
rain.  But  she  was  moved ;  her  bosom  was  unquiet ; 
her  eyes  felt  the  light.  And  now  she  can  meet 
me  hardily  and  dismiss  me  and  my  business.  I 
am  nothing  —  my  gospel  an  incident  in  the  night's 
doings!  What  can  be  made  of  such  women  as 
this  ?  O  God,  my  beloved !  without  a  soul !  "  He 
went  desperately  into  the  night. 


VI 

THE   SOUL   OF   GEORGIANA 

THE  Duke,  who  saw  most  things,  was  very 
curious,  and  had  to  be  satisfied.  She  told 
him  much;  he  guessed  the  remainder. 

"  The  youth  is  in  love  with  you,"  he  told  her ; 
and  added,  "  I  don't  wonder.  Now,  you  may  be 
very  valuable  to  him.  I  should  have  him  here  if  I 
were  you.  Let  him  pour  himself  out  into  your 
lap.  Then  you  can  whip  him  up  into  some  kind  of 
a  shape  and  put  him  all  back  into  his  case  again. 
He  's  rather  in  the  rough,  you  know." 

Georgiana  listened  and  smiled  at  her  tolerant 
friend.  He  encouraged  her. 

"  I  shan't  be  jealous.  That 's  not  my  way. 
But  I  don't  answer  for  Charles.  You  may  scare 
poor  Charles." 

She  bent  her  head.  "  I  must  n't  do  that.  It 
will  make  him  unhappy." 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  the  Duke  dryly,  "  with 
three  pretenders,  you  must  make  somebody  un- 
happy. The  great  thing  is  that  it 's  not  you. 
Now,  as  a  rule,  you  '11  find  that  when  men  and 

254 


THE  SOUL  OF  GEORGIANA      255 

women  get  involved  in  a  common  venture,  it 's  the 
men  who  come  off  best.  So  it  will  be  here  if  we 
don't  take  care.  You  good  little  soul!  "  and  he 
bent  over  her  chair,  "  I  take  my  oath  that  you 
shan't  get  scratched  by  me.  But  I  don't  answer 
for  Charles." 

No  more  could  she  answer  for  that  stately 
sufferer.  "  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Georgie,"  the  Duke 
said,  "  I  '11  talk  to  Master  Charles  for  you,  if 
you  like." 

She  looked  up  quickly,  rather  scared.  "  Oh!  " 
she  said,  "  what  shall  you  say  to  him?  " 

"  Tell  him  that  he  's  a  donkey,"  said  the  Duke, 
"  and  that  if  he  's  not  careful  he  '11  be  a  rogue 
donkey.  What  do  you  say?  " 

She  appealed,  smiling  still.  He  understood  her 
long  gaze,  but  maliciously  made  her  speak. 

"Well,  missy?" 

"  I  would  rather  you  said  nothing.  You  can't 
help  him,  or  me  either.  Pray  don't  speak  of  it." 

"  Oh,  naturally  I  will  not,  if  you  don't  relish 
the  idea." 

She  assured  him,  "  I  don't  relish  it  at  all."  He 
patted  her  shoulder. 

"  Then  no  more  about  it.  Let  us  return  to 
our  poet,  who  may  be  sublime,  but  between  you 
and  me  is  a  cub.  I  see  you  at  a  useful  work  —  an 
act  of  mercy:  giving  wisdom  to  the  simple."  He 
stopped,  then  added,  "  I  shan't  be  jealous,"  and 


256  MRS.  LANCELOT 

waited  to  enjoy  her  blush  —  which  he  did.  "  Ask 
him  here,  my  dear,"  he  said  then. 

She  shook  her  head.     "  He  won't  come." 

"Ho!  won't  he  though?     You  try  him." 

"  Really,  he  won't.     He  's  very  proud." 

"  What 's  he  proud  of?  I  '11  bet  you  my  cocked 
hat  he  won't  be  too  proud  to  come  here." 

But  she  was  positive,  nodding  positive.  '  Yes. 
He  says  that  this  is  your  house  —  which  of  course 
it  is." 

"  Which  of  course  it  is  n't.  However,  assum- 
ing the  house  to  be  mine,  I  still  don't  follow 
him." 

"  Oh,"  said  she,  looking  up,  "  he  does  n't  ap- 
prove of  you." 

The  Duke  took  that  simply.  "  He  's  quite  right 
there,  though  I  don't  know  that  it 's  any  business 
of  his.  Nor  do  I  see  —  Bless  me,  what  a  gos- 
soon it  is!  I  '11  trouble  you  for  the  counts  of  his 
indictment." 

"  He  thinks,"  said  Georgiana,  "  that  you  are  not 
real." 

"  Pish !     He  must  do  better  than  that." 

"  He  calls  you  a  phantom." 

"  Upon  my  soul,"  said  the  Duke,  looking  at  his 
legs,  "  that 's  the  last  thing  I  am."  He  gave  her 
a  very  keen  look,  which  she  felt  —  not  daring  to 
receive  it  full  —  through  the  top  of  her  head. 
"  And  he  calls  you  Nausithoe,  I  suppose?  " 


THE  SOUL  OF  GEORGIANA      257 

She  did  not  answer.  "  What  do  you  say  to 
that,  Mrs.  Georgie?  " 

She  replied  murmurously,  "  I  don't  think  you  're 
a  phantom." 

"  I  should  think  you  did  n't,"  he  chuckled* 
"  You  know  me  better  than  that;  you  're  not 
Nausithoe  for  any  default  of  mine.  And  he  won't 
think  so  either,  by  and  by,  when  he  begins  to  — " 
A  movement  of  hers  stopped  him.  "  Never  mind, 
my  dear.  You  don't  love  me,  I  know,  and  I  'm  a 
philosophical  fellow,  though  they  have  made  me  a 
peer.  I  take  what  I  can  get  and  am  grateful  to 
you." 

She  took  his  hand  suddenly  and  kissed  it.  "  You 
are  very  kind  to  me,  Duke."  He  patted  her  cheek, 
then  stooped  and  kissed  her  without  protest.  He 
looked  at  his  watch. 

"  I  must  go  down  to  the  House.  My  fellow- 
phantom  has  been  there  these  two  hours.  Where 
am  I  dining?  In  your  company?  " 

"  No,"  she  told  him,  "  Charles  and  I  are  dining 
here.  Mr.  Croker  is  coming,  and  you  refused  to 
meet  him  —  don't  you  remember?  " 

'  Yes,  yes.     Not  even  for  your  bright  eyes ! 
Do  you  go  out  afterwards?" 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  we  do.     Shall  I  look?  " 

She  went  to  her  desk  and  perused  her  diary. 
'  Yes,  we  are  at  the  Sufflecks'.     Shall  you  come?  " 

"  Certainly  I  shall  if  you  are  to  be  there.    Tom 


258  MRS.  LANCELOT 

Moore  will  sing,   I   suppose,   and  have   all  the 
women  weeping.     Not  you." 

"  No,  I  shan't  weep.  I  '11  ask  Mr.  Moore 
about  the  poet." 

"  The  other  poet.  Your  poet.  Yes,  yes. 
...  I  like  that  youth,  you  know.  He  thinks 
I  'm  a  phantom?  " 

"  He  said  you  were  a  murderer  too." 
"  So  I  am,"  said  the  Duke.     "  God  knows !  " 
Then  he  went  away,  and  left  her  to  herself  and 
her  thoughts. 

They  were  long,  but  vague  —  vaguely  pleasur- 
able, vaguely  despondent.  She  did  not  under- 
stand whither  she  was  floating  now,  in  what  cur- 
rent, in  what  company  in  the  tideway.  Pleasure 
came  to  her,  a  stirring  of  the  pulse,  a  flutter  of 
the  heart,  as  she  thought  of  Gervase  who,  for  love 
of  her,  chance-caught,  had  for  three  years  waited 
for  her  with  outcasts  at  the  doors  of  great  houses; 
who  for  love  of  her  had  heard  sweet  and  wild 
music ;  who  for  love  of  her  spoke  boldly  as,  surely, 
man  had  never  spoken  to  woman  before,  at  a 
first  meeting.  Was  it  not  extraordinary  that  she 
should  have  won  such  love  as  she  had  —  his, 
flashed  into  his  heart  at  one  blow,  in  one  moment, 
and  the  Duke's,  almost  the  same  in  origin?  What 
did  this  mean?  What  had  she  done?  What  was 
she?  What  could  she  do  in  return?  What  had 
she  left  to  give?  Gratitude  —  and  that  was  all. 


THE  SOUL  OF  GEORGIANA      259 

No,  not  all.  She  gave  the  Duke  more  than 
that.  When  all  was  said,  it  had  cost  her  some- 
thing to  take  this  position  with  him  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world  —  those  judging  eyes  askance  which  it 
gave  her,  withal  it  smiled  and  bowed  before  her. 
And,  to  be  perfectly  honest  with  herself,  this  had 
not  been  done  solely  to  advance  Charles.  No,  no, 
that  was  not  true.  And  now  came  the  question  — 
ought  she  to  tell  Charles  as  much? 

She  was  not  only  very  conscientious,  she  was 
very  tender-hearted,  and  could  not  bear  to  see 
him  suffer.  Now,  anxious  as  he  had  been  for  the 
friendship  between  his  wife  and  his  patron  to  ripen 
to  his  own  advantage,  he  suffered  atrociously  under 
it,  and,  she  judged,  would  give  the  world  to  undo 
what  had  been  done.  Some  of  it,  she  told  herself, 
could  never  be  undone.  Never,  nevermore,  could 
she  go  back  to  Charles  as  she  had  come  to  him  as 
a  bride.  Never,  never.  But  short  of  that  she 
would  do  anything  for  him  and  spare  him  suffering 
by  any  assurance  he  pleased.  Such  assurance 
must  come  from  her,  however.  If  the  Duke  had 
spoken  to  him  things  would  have  been  made  worse ; 
that  was  why  she  had  begged  him  to  say  nothing. 
And  if  she  herself  said  anything,  she  did  n't  know 
what  might  not  be  the  outcome.  Charles  was 
so  made  that  it  was  torture  to  him  to  speak  of 
intimate  matters.  He  had  never  in  all  their 
wedded  life  so  spoken  to  her.  He  was  a  born 
17 


260  MRS.  LANCELOT 

prude.  She,  on  the  other  hand,  was  not.  She  was 
naturally  direct  in  outlook,  direct  in  apprehension, 
direct  in  expression.  She  was  essentially  simple, 
innocent-minded,  and  honest.  He  was  complex, 
really  prurient,  and  expression  made  him  shame- 
faced. She  was  very  undecided  what  she  ought  to 
do. 

One  thing  was  clear.  Nothing  to  him  of 
Gervase  Poore.  So  long  as  the  poet  did  not  come 
to  the  house  that  would  be  easy,  and  the  unhappy 
Charles  need  know  nothing.  And  she  decided, 
on  other  grounds,  that  she  should  not  ask  Gervase 
to  Wake  House.  She  wanted  to  see  if  he  stood 
on  the  watch  for  her  comings  and  goings;  she 
wanted  to  see  him,  if  he  did  so  stand;  she  wanted 
him  to  see  her;  she  wanted  to  greet  him  with  the 
eyes.  She  smiled  to  herself  half  shrewdly,  half 
ashamed,  as  she  faced  and  acknowledged  these 
desires.  Tribute!  Yes,  and  sweet  tribute.  She 
had  been  married  five  years,  and  had  come  to 
the  understanding  of  her  charms.  She  was  at 
a  dangerous  age;  and  she  found  danger  sweet. 

After  dinner,  when  she  and  Charles  drove  up 
to  the  Sufflecks'  in  Berkeley  Square,  she  was  con- 
scious of  heart-beats.  She  saw,  by  leaning  side- 
ways, the  crowd  about  the  doors,  and  her  excite- 
ment grew.  Immediately  she  was  on  the  strip  of 
baize  she  was  aware  of  Gervase.  He  was  in  the 
front  rank,  bare-headed,  and  seemed  to  tower 


THE  SOUL  OF  GEORGIANA      261 

above  her.  She  dared,  however,  to  lift  her  eyes, 
to  encounter  and  to  hold  his.  She  felt  that  she 
spoke  with  hers;  but  knew  that  his  said  nothing. 
She  was  conscious  of  loss,  of  a  sinking  heart; 
thought  that  he  was  vexed  with  her.  It  was  true, 
she  was  late,  and  he  must  have  been  there  for  at 
least  an  hour  —  oh,  how  could  she  tell  him  of  her 
dinner-party  and  of  the  insufferable  length  of  Mr. 
Croker's  anecdotes!  The  door  shut  upon  her, 
and  left  him  outside.  She  wished  that  she  could 
turn  back,  open  the  door  again,  speak  to  him, 
tell  him  how  sorry  she  was.  Then  she  went  up- 
stairs, with  her  face  schooled  to  company,  and 
shook  hands  with  a  Lady  Laura,  who  had  been  a 
beauty,  and  with  Mr.  Suffleck,  who  had  not. 

The  rooms  were  full  and  very  hot;  the  people 
chattered  like  starlings  in  September.  To  chatter 
also  was  now  become  so  much  of  a  habit  that  she 
could  think  behind  her  speeches.  Think  she  did, 
piercingly,  with  a  heart  full  of  generous  pity  and 
of  high  admiration  at  once  for  her  watching  lover. 
She  had,  you  observe,  accepted  that  assumption  of 
his;  and  we  know  that  she  had  been  the  victim 
of  assumptions.  But  this  particular  assumption 
must  be  put  down  to  his  manner  of  statement. 
He  had  been  very  positive,  but  very  literal  also. 

Mr.  Moore  was  there,  sang  to  his  own  playing 
and  had,  as  the  Duke  had  foretold,  rivers  of  tears 
at  his  feet.  Lady  Laura  herself,  fine  woman 


262  MRS.  LANCELOT 

every  foot  of  her,  heaved  and  sobbed  unfeignedly. 
Georgiana  did  not  cry,  but  was  moved  to  confide 
somewhat  to  the  tender  care  of  so  sweet  a  minstrel. 
This,  after  her  manner,  she  did  not  do.  She  dis- 
trusted her  impulses  while  she  found  food  for  the 
imagination  in  fostering  them. 

It  was,  however,  easy  to  get  speech  with  Tom, 
whose  romantic  habit  consisted  with  a  good  deal 
of  shrewd  practice.  Tom  knew  very  well  that  the 
Duke  had  no  liking  for  him.  His  court  to  the 
Duke's  favorite  was,  therefore,  assiduous  while, 
recognizing  her  charm,  it  was  also  sincere.  He 
did  not  know  her  well,  did  not  perhaps  know 
more  than  her  superficies;  but  that  delighted  him. 
Her  "  sweet  baby  face,"  her  eyes'  deep  blue,  her 
Greek  mouth,  her  straight  brow  —  he  exchanged 
raptures  on  these  topics  with  any  man.  Upon 
her  approach  he  made  her  most  welcome  and 
himself  gave  her  the  opening  she  sought. 

"  So  I  pleased  ye,  with  me  penny  whistle ! 
Mrs.  Lancelot,  I  'm  a  proud  man.  Contented 
entirely  I  And  it  comes  from  your  kind  lips  with 
all  the  more  balm  seeing  that  I  was  the  means  of 
submittting  to  your  notice,  ma'am,  a  very  organ 
of  sound  the  other  day.  Me  young  friend  Ger- 
vase,  to  wit.  Me  dear  lady,  the  boy  's  a  string 
band  compared  with  meself.  A  string  band  he 
is,  with  himself  the  drum-major  at  the  head  of  ut. 


THE  SOUL  OF  GEORGIANA      263 

Now  what  did  ye  think  of  Gervase?  Let  us 
sit  and  exchange  ideas." 

Nothing  could  have  suited  her  better.  She 
wished  to  know  all  there  was  to  be  known  of 
Gervase. 

Tom  told  her  his  history.  Son  of  a  gentleman, 
one  Captain  Christopher  Poore,  an  East  India 
Company's  man,  and  of  a  foreign  lady  (French,  he 
believed) ,  name  unknown  to  him.  She,  a  widow, 
lived  in  retirement  upon  a  narrow  pension  in 
Dulwich,  Gervase  was  her  only  child.  Educated  at 
Christ's  Hospital,  where  he  was  always  in  trouble 
—  for  fighting  with  all  and  sundry ;  articled  at 
eighteen  to  an  attorney ;  was  now  a  clerk  on  a  small 
salary,  and  not  at  all  likely  to  do  well  with  the  law. 
He  had,  besides,  an  income  of  fifty  pounds  a  year 
from  the  funds.  Tom  shook  his  head  over  the 
boy's  future.  He  was  too  stiff,  too  unaccom- 
modating to  succeed  in  Grub  Street.  He  would 
look  at  nothing  but  what  he  chose,  and  treated  a 
publisher  as  if  he  were  a  dog.  He  was  very 
ambitious,  very  opinionated,  very  arrogant  —  but 
very  lovable.  "  At  least,"  said  he,  "  I  love  him. 
He  despises  me,  I  don't  doubt,  calls  me  a  time- 
server  and  the  like  of  that.  But  he  's  got  a  noble 
heart,  Mrs.  Lancelot,  a  generous  heart.  He  's  on 
fire  for  truth  and  beauty;  he  sees  the  high  things 
and  follows  them ;  I  see  'em,  God  forgive  me,  and 


264  MRS.  LANCELOT 

don't.  After  an  hour  or  two  of  Gervase's  conver- 
sation I  feel  as  if  I  had  had  a  day  on  the  mountains 
—  worn  out,  ma'am,  but  cleansed  —  healthily 
tired.  He  spares  himself  nothing,  and  he  spares 
his  friend  nothing.  He  claims  all  you  have,  but 
he  gives  you  all.  There  are  no  bounds  to  him 
— 'tis  the  most  exorbitant,  unconscionable,  avari- 
cious young  prodigal  you  ever  saw!  " 

She  absorbed  all  this  seriously.  It  fell  in  with 
her  own  fancies  about  Gervase.  She  had  been 
very  sensible  of  his  vehemence.  But  as  to  his 
poetry  she  desired  to  know  something.  Tom 
thought  that  he  was  a  true  poet  and  might  be  a 
great  one.  "  He 's  not  a  minstrel,  you  must 
know,  ma'am,  but  a  bard.  His  music  is  a  solemn 
music;  his  ideas  are  for  chanting.  He  sees  life 
as  a  procession  —  not  as  a  pastoral  —  a  sweep 
onwards  to  high  destinies,  not  as  a  sunny  pasture 
where  lambs  can  skip.  Love  to  him  is  an  invoca- 
tion to  a  mystery.  There  should  be  neither  tears 
nor  laughter  —  it 's  a  great  business.  I  can  see 
him  possessed  by  it,  robing  for  it  in  white  gar- 
ments; he  would  take  the  sacrament  before  he 
kissed  his  mistress.  Would  n't  dare  else.  You 
knew  he  was  a  Catholic?  No?  Ah,  but  he  is 
though,  and  I  would  n't  be  the  priest  that  con- 
fessed him.  He  'd  scold  the  poor  man  into  an 
ague  before  he  'd  let  him  give  the  good  words. 
.  .  .  He  's  a  great  man  in  the  rough,  is  Gervase. 


THE  SOUL  OF  GEORGIANA      265 

Do  you  know  what  he  's  at  now?  The  Song  of 
Roland,  no  less.  He  's  at  it  night  and  day  — 
and  marches  the  pavement  chanting  Roland  and 
Oliver,  and  Aude  the  fair.  Did  you  ever  read  the 
pome,  Mrs.  Lancelot?  'Tis  fine,  free  moving, 
bloody  stuff.  But  that 's  only  a  piece  of  what  he  's 
at.  He  's  got  Charlemagne  at  the  back  of  his 
head.  Will  make  an  epic  of  him!  And  Aude 
the  fair!  'Tis  my  belief  he  '11  make  a  lovely  lady 
of  her." 

Mrs.  Lancelot  was  interested.  Her  eyes  shone. 
"Who  was  Aude  the  fair?"  she  asked.  Tom 
twinkled. 

"  'Twas  the  beloved  of  Roland,  fair  lady.  You 
must  get  our  young  friend  to  give  you  a  taste 
of  her  quality.  I  declare  that  I  'm  at  her  feet 
meself." 

Mrs.  Lancelot  was  very  much  interested. 

Going  away,  she  had  the  arm  of  the  Duke, 
and  Charles,  as  usual,  brought  up  the  rear.  It 
was  so  late  that  she  had  not  expected  to  see 
Gervase;  yet  there  he  was,  impending  over  her 
like  a  cliff.  Her  heart  gave  a  leap  and  she  felt 
giddy  —  but  she  knew  that  she  was  glad,  knew 
that  she  was  proud,  knew  that  she  was  grateful. 

Fate  led  her  so  close  to  him  as  almost  to  touch 
his  cloak  with  her  own.  She  dared  not  look  up, 
but  passed  under  his  gaze  as  a  bird  under  the 


266  MRS.  LANCELOT 

shadow  of  a  kite,  and  flitted  into  the  carriage  as 
if  it  had  been  a  furze  bush.  She  felt  her  eyelids 
flicker  as  she  passed  him.  From  her  place  of 
safety  she  peered  out.  He  stood  there  looking 
after  her,  not  moving  from  the  place.  She  had  a 
fear  that  he  might  not  have  seen  her  perhaps,  that 
he  would  wait  on  and  on  till  they  put  the  lights 
out  and  took  up  the  carpet.  If  he  did  that,  she 
thought,  what  sort  of  passion  would  take  him 
home  —  to  Clerkenwell !  Alas,  no  staves  of 
Roland  and  Aude  the  fair  would  drive  his  foot- 
steps !  The  thought  tormented  her. 

She  endured  a  fortnight  or  more  of  this  curious 
and  heart-probing  experience.  Sometimes  he  was 
not  at  his  post,  and  then  she  was  unhappy; 
mostly  he  was,  and  then  she  was  uneasy.  Some- 
times she  dared  to  exchange  a  long  glance  with 
him,  sometimes  she  tried  to  let  him  see  that  she 
was  grateful  for  the  tribute,  sometimes  that  she 
was  pained  at  his  pain.  She  could  charge  her  eyes 
with  appeal,  with  thank  you,  with  Non  sum  digna, 
with  "  Yesterday  —  I  looked  for  you,"  but  she 
could  get  no  answer.  She  could  not  even  be  sure 
that  he  saw  her  at  all.  He  looked  at  her,  it 's 
true,  fully  at  her,  but  without  implication,  and 
without  recognition.  He  looked  at  her  as  a  statue 
looks  at  its  beholder,  to  comprehend  the  whole, 
but  not  to  discover.  It  was  impossible  to  take  of- 


THE  SOUL  OF  GEORGIANA      267 

fense;  there  was  no  obtrusion:  impossible  to  get 
comfort;  there  was  no  acknowledgment. 

Her  imagination,  naturally  ardent,  was  fired, 
became  acutely  inflamed.  His  life,  his  dreams, 
his  music,  his  sufferings  swept  before  her  in  a 
series  of  vivid  pictures.  She  came  soon  to  under- 
stand that  this  nightly  strain  could  not  be  endured 
by  her,  but  by  him  could  be  indefinitely  endured. 
She  felt  herself  weakening,  and  knew  him  very 
strong.  Then  she  had  a  curious  discovery.  She 
knew  perfectly  well,  one  morning  when  she  woke, 
that  she  would  have  to  end  it. 

End  it  she  did,  by  writing  him  a  letter  to  the 
care  of  his  publishers.  Hesitating  between  the 
proper  "  Dear  Sir,"  and  the  sincerer  "  Dear  Mr. 
Poore,"  she  finally  began  without  address.  She 
asked  him  to  call  upon  her,  naming  an  hour  and 
day,  and  signed  herself  plainly  without  protesta- 
tions of  service. 


HE  replied  that  he  could  not  come  on  the  day 
named,  nor  on  any  day  but  Sunday,  until 
eight  o'clock  in  the  evening;  an  awkward  hour. 
But  he  expressed  no  anxiety  one  way  or  another 
as  to  whether  he  should  come  or  not,  and  she  had 
to  fit  him  in  on  her  own  desire.  She  did  it  by 
throwing  over  a  dinner  engagement  and  leaving 
Charles  to  go  alone.  Charles  was  unsuspicious, 
but  the  Duke,  who  also  had  to  be  told,  looked 
humorously  at  her,  with  twinkling  eyes.  He  said 
nothing,  however.  She  wrote  to  Gervase  again, 
naming  day  and  suitable  hour.  He  replied  that 
he  would  be  there. 

She  was  very  nervous  and  expected  to  find  the 
preliminaries  difficult;  but  he  was  evidently  one 
of  those  to  whom  there  are  none;  one  of  those 
who  live,  whether  solitary  or  in  company,  in 
permanent  crisis;  who  import  their  neighbors 
bodily  into  the  midst  of  what  scene  they  may  be 
enacting  at  the  moment.  So  it  was  now.  It  was 
as  if  he  had  been  awaiting  her,  regaling  himself 

with  fervent  soliloquy,  which  he  continued  upon 

268 


THE  CROWN  269 

her  entry  with  only  a  slight  change  of  direction  — 
addressing  it  now  to  her  instead  of  to  the  auditory. 
The  man-servant  announced  him,  and  she  half  rose 
at  the  name;  rose  fully  as  he  came  in,  advanced, 
and  held  out  her  hand.  She  had  dined  early  and 
was  not  in  full  dress,  had  modified  her  toilet  simply 
but  withal  carefully.  As  he  came  to  her  she  saw 
the  crisis  in  his  eyes. 

"  There  's  mystery  about  your  clothes,"  he  told 
her  immediately.  "  I  have  never  seen  you  before 
except  dressed  for  a  ball.  You  are  still  beautiful, 
but  you  are  not  more  human.  I  think  that  you 
are  more  remote  the  nearer  one  gets  to  you.  You 
are  only  half  human.  You  have  a  fairy  progenitor 
somewhere.  Morgan  le  Fay,  perhaps,  or  Vivien, 
who  lured  Merlin  into  an  oak-tree  with  hopes  of 
love,  and  shut  him  in  there,  closing  up  the  gnarly 
bark  till  his  voice  sounded  muffled,  and  his  groan- 
ing like  the  wind  about  the  house  on  winter 
nights.  Have  you  a  heart?  Kindness  you  have, 
I  know:  the  fairy  people  are  kind.  They  indulge 
themselves  so.  It  is  as  pleasant  for  them  to  do 
kindness  as  it  is  for  us.  But  they  have  no  needs 
as  we  have.  They  want  nothing  but  what  they 
can  take;  they  never  want  to  give.  That  is  our 
great  need,  to  give  and  not  to  take.  To  me  now 
my  need  makes  me  cry  out.  I  want  to  give  of 
my  very  virtue  —  to  feel  it  well  out  of  me,  to  feel 
—  pouf!  but  what  am  I  saying?  But  you  have 


270  MRS.  LANCELOT 

no  such  grief.  You  smile  faintly,  wisely;  you 
absorb  me  with  your  great  eyes ;  and  not  me  only, 
but  whomsoever  they  light  upon.  It  seems  to 
me  that  no  man  can  look  on  you  without  desire. 
You  hurt  me,  you  trouble  me,  you  drain  me  of 
my  force.  I  was  happy  before  1  saw  you  —  now 
I  waste  in  effort  to  reach  you.  But  you  are  out 
of  reach." 

This  was  what  he  had  made  out  of  her  in  the 
course  of  his  vigils,  and  this  he  gave  her  while  she 
stood,  trembling  slightly,  fluttering  rather  faintly 
before  him,  as  a  white  moth  discovered  by  the 
light  stands  motionless  but  for  a  quiver  of  her 
wings. 

Her  dismay  gave  place  to  a  disappointment  so 
sharp  as  to  fill  her  eyes  with  tears.  All  her  an- 
ticipations had  been  pleasurable.  She  had  en- 
joyed every  moment  of  them  —  the  little  mysti- 
fications she  had  had  to  employ,  to  Charles,  to 
the  Duke  —  the  letter-writing ;  then  the  prepara- 
tion —  new  flowers  for  the  room,  coquetry  at  the 
toilet  table  —  her  excitement  as  the  hour  ap- 
proached, and  then  —  and  then  —  this  cloud- 
burst. Her  lip  trembled,  she  could  not  check  her 
tears.  He  saw  them  —  at  first  unmoved. 

She  stammered,  "  You  are  unkind.  What  have 
I  done?  Oh,  you  are  unjust  to  me!  " 

He  was  soon  moved  —  he  came  to  her  side  — 
but  she  motioned  him  away. 


THE  CROWN  271 

"  It  is  abominable,  what  you  say  to  me.  What 
have  I  done  to  you?  Nothing.  I  had  never 
seen  you  since  that  evening  at  Vauxhall  —  and 
you  charge  me  with  draining  you !  What  do  you 
mean?  I  wish  you  would  leave  me  —  it  is  abom- 
inable." 

"  Yes,  I.  will  leave  you,"  he  said  coldly.  "  It 
will  be  better." 

He  bowed  to  her  and  turned  away.  In  a  flash 
she  saw  that  if  he  went  he  would  resume  his 
attendance  at  doors,  and  she  knew  that  she  could 
not  bear  it.  She  held  out  her  hands,  and  called 
to  him. 

"  Mr.  Poore  — "  He  turned,  saw  her,  went 
swiftly  back,  took  both  her  hands,  and  knelt  at 
her  knees.  He  hid  his  face  in  her  hands.  "  O 
God,  I  am  a  villain !  O  God,  forgive  me !  " 

She  may  be  excused  for  thinking  it  was  her 
forgiveness  he  sought.  "  Of  course  I  forgive  you. 
Please  to  get  up.  You  distress  me  —  and  dis- 
tress yourself.  Please  to  get  up." 

He  rose,  but  still  held  her  hands.  He  looked 
earnestly  at  her,  and  she  saw  through  her  full  eyes 
that  his  eyes  were  full.  "  I  did  n't  know  what  I 
was  saying.  I  was  full  of  trouble.  I  have  been 
beside  myself.  But  you  will  forgive  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,"  she  assured  him.  "  Indeed  I 
will.  I  want  you  to  be  happy — " 

"  The  thought  of  you  makes  me  happy,"  he  told 


272  MRS.  LANCELOT 

her.  "  When  I  am  well,  the  thought  of  your 
beauty  fills  me  with  joy.  You  make  music  wher- 
ever you  go,  like  the  fair  lady  of  the  nursery 
rime.  For  your  beauty  is  vocal  to  me  —  I  hear 
it  as  well  as  see  it.  Yours  is  a  tranquil  beauty  — 
it  seldom  disturbs  me.  It  has  the  serenity  of 
Greece.  I  think  of  you  as  the  embodiment  of 
that  divine  air  which  Sophocles  and  Phidias 
breathed,  and  exhaled  in  music  and  in  marble 
form." 

He  was  contradicting  himself,  but  seemed  not 
to  realize  it.  Nor  did  she.  She  glowed  under  his 
praises  as  she  had  cowered  when  he  reproached 
her. 

"  Before  I  saw  you,"  he  went  on,  "  I  wandered 
uncertain  of  my  purpose.  Clouded  forms  floated 
across  my  field  —  I  had  nothing  clear  before  me. 
Then  you  were  revealed.  I  knew  then  —  immedi- 
ately —  what  I  was  called  upon  to  do.  To  hymn 
you  —  to  declare  you  to  men  —  that  was  my  mis- 
sion. Well,  I  am  about  it.  I  am  full  of  proj- 
ects —  they  crowd  upon  me.  I  will  write  of  you 
what  was  never  yet  written  of  a  woman.  A  poet 
promised  that  before;  but  I'll  better  him.  Let 
me  talk  to  you  about  these  things  —  But  you 
have  forgiven  me?" 

Oh,  yes,  yes,  she  had  forgiven  him.  He  kissed 
both  her  hands  before  he  let  them  fall.  She  sat 
and  he  at  her  feet. 


THE  CROWN  273 

He  had  his  face  between  his  hands,  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  and  talked,  and  talked  in  a  stream. 
It  was  an  age  of  talkers,  but  she  had  never  heard 
such  talk  as  this. 

Love  was  patent,  unashamed.  He  not  only  as- 
sumed her  acceptance  of  his  homage,  but  her  ap- 
proval of  it. 

And  she  did  approve.  She  accepted  him  and 
it  on  his  own  terms,  as  she  had  accepted  Charles 
and  the  Duke  on  theirs;  but  there  was  a  differ- 
ence. With  Charles  she  had  followed  the  lines 
of  duty;  with  the  Duke  flattery  had  led  her; 
with  Gervase  it  was  enthusiasm  for  his  tribute. 
It  came  to  be  very  near  enthusiasm  for  him.  She 
hung  upon  his  words,  she  hung  over  him  with 
infinite  tenderness,  smiling  gently  down  upon  him 
where  he  sat  by  her  knees  on  a  footstool,  and  in 
her  eyes,  and  veiling  him  from  clear  sight,  was  a 
mist  of  tears.  How  beautiful,  how  very  beautiful 
were  his  words,  his  thoughts;  how  noble  the 
thinker;  how  happy  she !  She  felt  as  if  she  sailed 
high  in  air.  His  words  were  like  strong  wings 
which  lifted  her  level  with  him  and  carried  her 
safely  as  they  oared  the  deep.  He  made  her 
bosom  sink  and  swell  fast,  he  made  her  tears  fall 
down  upon  it ;  he  made  her  heart  beat. 

"  Ah,  but  you  and  I  together  could  face  a  world 
in  arms  —  you  and  I  together.  That  is  what  I 
dream  of.  I  see  the  place  —  I  see  every  detail. 


274  MRS.  LANCELOT 

I  could  tell  you  what  we  shall  do  from  hour  to 
hour.  I  am  certain,  as  I  kneel  here  before  you, 
that  all  this  will  come  to  pass."  Then  he  ended, 
and, 

"  Oh,"  she  sobbed,  "  Oh,  if  this  were  true !  " 
and  then  he  turned  to  her,  upon  his  knees,  and 
clasped  her  hands. 

"  Beloved,  it  is  true  —  it  ij  true  —  it  is  the  one 
real  thing  in  life  at  this  moment.  It  is  true  be- 
cause we  know  it,  each  of  us.  For  once  the  cage 
doors  are  open  and  our  hearts  are  brethren.  My 
dear  love,  I  love  you  —  and  I  read  love  in  your 
tender  eyes.  Ah,  you  love  me,  you  love  me !  Is 
it  not  so  ?  Tell  me  —  speak  to  me  —  look  at 
me." 

She  looked  for  a  second  through  her  tears  — 
she  turned  away  her  face  to  hide  her  blushing  — 
but  she  moved  her  head,  and  in  a  moment  she  was 
caught  in  his  arms.  He  kissed  her  fiercely  and 
long;  his  lips  held  hers  and  drew  the  soul  out  of 
her  body.  They  clung  together,  kissing,  and  then 
he  suddenly  let  her  go,  and  hid  his  face  in  her  lap. 
Stooping  over  him,  as  a  mother  over  her  son,  she 
put  her  hand  on  his  head,  and  let  her  tears  come 
as  they  would. 

Presently  he  looked  up  and  talked  to  her  of 
the  new  world.  "  A  great  life  is  begun  from  this 
moment.  You  and  I  are  born  whole  and  one  into 
the  world.  Plato's  allegory  is  in  a  fair  way  to 


THE  CROWN  275 

be  realized,  for  the  two  hemispheres  are  to  be 
made  one  —  a  thing  which  does  not  happen  once  in 
ten  thousand  years.  Observe  exactly  what  has 
taken  place.  That  which  has  been  a  fact  for  three 
years  —  a  fact  of  my  being,  is  now  a  fact  of  yours. 
My  love  is  inseparable  from  yours,  for  it  is  con- 
fessed and  accepted;  yours  from  mine,  for  it  is 
acknowledged  and  received.  Now  I  can  leave 
you  for  as  long  as  you  please,  for  my  faith  in  you 
is  absolute.  You  go  your  way,  I  go  mine  about 
this  grubby  town ;  but  between  us,  wheresoever  we 
fare,  there  stretches  a  golden  thread,  unbreakable, 
upon  which,  through  which,  run  words,  throbs  of 
the  heart,  urgencies,  cries  of  spirit  to  spirit;  so 
we  talk,  see  each  other,  kiss,  clasp  each  other,  as 
now  we  have.  I  shall  go  about  my  work  triumph- 
ing; all  England  shall  hear  my  song  of  songs; 
you  go  your  sweet  ways,  ministering  here  and 
there,  testifying  so  to  the  grace  bestowed;  raying 
forth  in  your  beauty  and  grace  the  miracle  which 
has  been  wrought  in  your  heart.  Don't  think  me 
arrogant  if  I  say  that  your  love  for  me  will  trans- 
figure you,  or  that  mine  for  you  is  a  thing  to  en- 
hance you,  make  you  rarer  and  more  sweet.  It  is 
good  for  you  to  love,  and  good  to  be  loved.  So, 
of  course,  it  is  with  me.  Other  men  love  you, 
you  say?  No,  don't  shake  your  lovely  head.  I 
know  that  you  don't  say  so.  I  have  no  jealousy 
of  them  —  I  am  not  so  mean.  I  wish  you  to  be 

18 


276  MRS.  LANCELOT 

loved;  I  wish  all  England  knew  how  loveworthy 
you  are.  And  it  shall,  it  shall.  But  their  love  is 
not  to  you  as  mine,  because  it  is  no  part  of  you. 
Mine  is  absorbed  in  your  nature.  Henceforth 
they  who  love  you  must  love  me  too  —  for  you 
have  received  me  as  a  sacrament  —  in  the  touching 
of  our  lips.  Now  I  am  in  you,  and  you  in  me." 
Once  more  she  received  him  into  her  arms,  once 
more  received  his  ardent  kisses;  and  then  she 
rested  so,  with  his  head  upon  her  bosom. 

By  and  by,  finding  her  voice,  she  asked  him  as 
a  kindness  to  her  to  cease  his  nightly  watchings  at 
house-doors.  "  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  they  cease. 
I  shall  see  you  more  often  and  better.  For  we 
must  meet.  We  shall  have  so  much  to  say  to 
each  other.  It  is  essential  that  we  meet  —  often 
—  every  day,  if  possible.  Indeed,  every  hour  will 
be  wasted  in  which  we  do  not  meet." 

She  laughed  merrily  —  she  was  ridiculously 
happy,  and  felt  it  ridiculous.  "  Oh,  how  foolish 
you  are !  Oh,  how  sweetly  foolish  !  It  hurts  me 
to  laugh  at  you,  but  how  can  I  help  it?  My 
dearest  boy,  how  can  we  meet?  Do  be  serious. 
I  think  you  must  be  mad.  Why,  you  have  your 
office  to  begin  with  —  and  I  have  Charles  and  the 
Duke  to  look  after,  poor  dears.  And  then  I  have 
to  go  to  stupid  parties,  and  sit  at  long  dinners, 
and  write  notes,  and  read  notes,  and  see  dress- 
makers —  and  very  soon  to  go  into  the  country. 


THE  CROWN  277, 

No,  no,  we  must  be  very  sensible  over  this,  and 
you  must  be  very  good.  Now  promise  me  that 
you  will." 

He  heard  her  quietly,  and  sat  up,  crossing  his 
legs  like  a  Turk,  and  frowning  hard.  "  I  give  up 
my  office,  of  course." 

At  this  she  raised  an  outcry.  u  Never  in  the 
world !  Why,  you  'd  be  ruined.  That 's  not  to 
be  thought  of." 

"  It  has  been  thought  of,"  he  said.  "  Indeed, 
it 's  as  good  as  done.  I  spoke  to  Mr.  Metcalfe 
about  it  to-day.  He  agreed  with  me  that  I  should 
never  make  an  attorney;  and  I'm  sure  I  never 
shall." 

She  was  sobered.  "  Oh,  my  dear,  this  is  very 
serious.  Do  you  assure  me  that  you  must — " 

"  I  assure  you,  my  dearest,  that  I  was  never 
more  serious.  Poetry  is  henceforward  the  occupa- 
tion of  my  life  —  poetry  and  you." 

"  Ah !  "  she  began  to  say,  but  he  took  her  hand 
and  looked  up  into  her  face. 

"  My  dear  one,  my  dear  one,  do  you  doubt  my 
powers?  Never  do  that.  I  have  found  myself, 
my  strength.  I  know  what  I  can  do.  And  you 
see,  I  shall  be  able  to  see  you  much  more  fre- 
quently now  than  ever  before.  This  day  week  I 
shall  be  a  free  man." 

She  was  afraid,  of  course;  but  he  had  his  way 
of  talking  her  over  —  which  was  not  all  talking, 


278  MRS.  LANCELOT 

though  done  with  the  lips.  She  promised  to  see 
him  when  she  could;  had  no  clearer  promise  to 
make  —  nor  did  he  ask  it  of  her.  Arrangements 
were  to  be  left  to  her,  he  said.  Whatever  she 
found  good  would  be  good  —  and  so  forth. 

With  that,  or  the  sequels  of  that,  he  left  her, 
the  glad  and  confident  young  man,  stooping  from 
his  height  to  catch  her  to  his  breast,  stroking  her 
face  as  she  nestled  in  his  arms,  bending  down  to 
whisper  his  tender  words  of  love  and  adoration  of 
her  quiet  beauty,  until  she  felt  her  brain  spin  with 
the  wonder  and  strength  of  them  and  of  him. 
Finally  he  tore  himself  away,  looked  at  her,  held 
her  again  long  in  his  arms,  kissed  her  near  to 
swooning,  and  swept  out  of  the  room  and  out  of 
the  house.  She  saw  him  stride  down  Piccadilly, 
but  he  did  not  look  up. 

She  would  have  been  thrilled  to  hear  of  his  last 
act  before  he  left  the  region.  Near  Down  Street 
a  poor  painted  thing,  a  wisp  of  frippery  and  sor- 
row, stopped  him  with  her  preposterous  proposal. 
She  was  half-hearted,  she  faltered,  for  she  had  re- 
marked his  haste.  But  Gervase,  who  always  did 
the  incalculable  thing,  stopped  and  took  her  by  the 
arm. 

"I  must  tell  somebody  —  and  why  not  you? 
What  you  ask  me  is  absurd,  and  I  '11  tell  you  why. 
I  am  to  be  the  happiest  as  I  am  already  the  proud- 
est man  in  the  world.  I  love,  I  am  loved;  is  not 


THE  CROWN  279 

that  enough?  Happy  —  O  God!"  He  threw 
his  head  up  to  the  stars,  and  laughed  aloud.  "  But 
you  —  you  are  not  going  to  be  happy.  No,  no. 
But  it  shan't  be  my  fault."  He  plunged  for  a 
coin.  *'  Live  honest,  my  dear,  this  night,  and  pray 
for  me  by  a  clean  pillow."  He  gave  her  a  crown- 
piece  and  flashed  on  his  way.  She  thought  him  a 
god,  burst  out  crying,  kissed  the  coin,  and  held 
out  her  arms  after  him  in  the  dark. 


VIII 

FIRST   FRUITS 

IT  did  not  need  the  Duke's  perspicacity  to  dis- 
cover the  preoccupations  of  his  Egeria  dur- 
ing the  remainder  of  the  season.  The  facts  that 
her  attentiveness  to  his  claims  was  redoubled,  and 
that  more  tenderness  was  employed  in  his  service 
were  of  themselves  enough  to  convince  him.  He 
was  touched  to  see  how  she  hovered  over  him, 
how  she  lingered  in  her  farewells  at  temporary 
separations;  for  if  she  left  him  for  half  a  day  or 
a  couple  of  hours  she  bade  him  good-by,  and  of- 
fered him  her  smooth  cheek.  He  was  very  much 
touched;  but  he  divined  the  cause,  and  even  got 
satisfaction  out  of  it.  Strange,  chill-blooded,  well- 
balanced  voluptuary  that  he  was,  where  his  ap- 
petite was  not  concerned,  he  could  be  as  senti- 
mental as  any  esthetic  philosopher  you  please ;  and 
it  is  a  fact  that  he  promised  himself  distinct  and 
precise  enjoyment  out  of  the  spectacle  of  Georgi- 
ana  deep  in  the  bath  of  her  first  affair  of  the  heart. 
Something  that  he  had  said  to  her  a  few  days 
after  the  appearance  of  "  Nausithoe  "  might  have 
enlightened  her,  but  did  not.  It  was  made  plain 

280 


FIRST  FRUITS  281 

that  he  had  read  the  work.  It  was  lying  on  her 
table,  and  he  picked  it  up.  "  A  queer  fish,  the 
poet,"  said  he;  "  but  a  keen-sighted  dog  too.  Do 
you  see  the  hang  of  it  all?  " 

She  had  thought  so.  "  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  I 
understand  it,  if  you  mean  that." 

"  '  Remember'd  joy,  Nausithoe  1 '  "  he  quoted, 
and  ran  on  for  a  few  lines.  "  Now  what  a  thing 
for  a  woman  that  is  —  to  have  '  remember'd  joy  ' 
to  fall  back  upon." 

She  bent  over  her  needlework,  glowed  over  it 
with  a  keen  intensity  of  vision,  and  her  brows 
knitted.  He  watched  her  for  a  while,  then  went 
on. 

"  I  'm  no  poet  myself,  but  I  must  say  that  your 
man  's  got  a  thought  into  this  thing.  How  many 
women  have  phantom  lovers!  Thousands,  by 
George,  thousands !  Now,  Georgie,  mark  this. 
No  man  has  a  phantom  mistress.  Never,  never! 
That 's  certain.  But  when  we  are  out  to-night  — 
wherever  it  may  be  —  I  '11  undertake  to  show  you 
the  women  with  phantom  partners  —  husbands  or 
lovers,  it 's  all  one."  He  looked  at  her  again 
sharply.  "  And  sometimes,  my  dear,  they  have 
both,  and  get  nothing  but  emptiness  out  of  either." 

Her  head  was  deeply  bent,  her  chin  close  to  her 
bosom.  But  she  looked  up  presently,  and  fixed 
him  fully  with  her  serious  blue  eyes.  "  They 
know  no  better,"  she  said,  "  and  feel  no  need." 


282  MRS.  LANCELOT 

To  that  he  countered,  "  But  if  they  do,  and 
when  they  do  —  what  then?  " 

Her  outlook  was  dreary.  "  They  have  to  learn 
to  accept  consequences.  They  are  better  at  pay- 
ing their  debts  than  men  are." 

"  My  dear,"  he  said  gently,  "  I  would  help  you 
if  I  could."  She  shook  her  head,  smiling  kindly 
at  him  with  her  good  eyes. 

"  You  can't.  There  's  nothing  to  be  done.  I 
have  my  ghosts,  and  like  Nausithoe  must  content 
myself.  I  can  dream,  you  know." 

He  turned  to  the  window.  "  You  can't  live 
on  dreams,"  he  told  her.  Yet  that  was  precisely 
what  this  least  dreamy  of  men  was  himself  doing. 

But  just  at  this  time  (without  the  least  suspicion 
on  her  part  that  he  saw  anything)  he  had  begun  to 
see  his  Nausithoe  in  a  fair  way  to  have  a  lover  of 
flesh  and  blood.  This  would  be  no  dreamer,  he 
warranted.  He  was  not  by  any  means  sure  how  if 
would  prove,  but  he  fancied  that  she  would  finally 
claim  more  than  a  shade.  He  had  to  face  that, 
and  get  what  comfort  for  himself  he  could  out  of 
it.  Whatever  was  to  happen  to  her,  he  thought, 
she  would  get  some  flesh  on  her  dear  bones,  some 
blood  into  her  worn  cheeks,  and  a  dewier  touch  of 
magic  in  her  eyes.  All  that,  said  he,  was  surely  to 
the  good!  Georgiana,  he  thought,  would  dazzle 
the  world,  as  she  had  dazzled  him  already, 
when  the  Fairy  Godmother  touched  her  so  with  the 


FIRST  FRUITS  283 

wand.  The  upshot  interested  him  vastly;  he  saw 
nothing  but  satisfaction  to  come  out  of  it.  As 
for  himself,  he  was  (I  have  affirmed)  either  a  sen- 
sualist or  a  sentimentalist;  but  never  both  at  once. 
Georgiana  had  him  on  the  latter  side,  though  there 
had  been  a  time  when  it  might  have  been  other- 
wise. But  he  knew  very  well  the  worth  of  a 
woman's  No,  and  that  moment  of  tensity,  when, 
held  in  his  arms,  still,  quivering  with  her  passion 
for  honor,  she  had  fought  him  for  her  soul,  had 
been  for  him  the  moment  of  the  most  absolute 
defeat  he  had  ever  had.  He  knew  himself.  He 
knew  her.  She  was  as  safe  now  with  him  as  one 
of  his  daughters,  and  a  thousand  times  more  dear. 
Moreover  —  and  here  you  have  the  man  —  she 
would  never  stint  him  of  his  dues,  never  fail  him : 
that  he  knew.  Bocca  baciata  non  perde  ventura. 
He  observed,  with  a  twinkle,  that  since  her  happi- 
ness had  brimmed  over  —  so  that  she  actually 
flitted  singing  about  the  house,  and  could  be 
heard  singing  to  herself  as  he  stood  outside  the 
door  —  he  observed,  I  say,  that  she  was  more 
effusive  with  him;  was  freer  with  her  endear- 
ments, her  touchings,  and  laying-on  of  hands,  of- 
fered her  kisses  more  beneficently,  received  his 
own  more  gladly,  was  less  on  her  guard,  more 
her  natural,  warm-hearted  self;  and  that  even  with 
the  glum  Charles  she  was  on  better  terms.  She 
rallied  Charles;  she  quizzed  him;  she  made  him 


284  MRS.  LANCELOT 

talk,  was  less  on  edge  with  his  punctilio,  took  him 
and  his  troubles  far  less  tragically.  When  he  was 
not  abroad,  he  dined  with  the  pair  at  least  twice 
a  week.  Her  new  gaiety,  her  new  freedom  were 
noticeable.  You  would  have  said  that  Charles 
himself  must  have  remarked  them.  At  this  rate, 
said  the  Duke  to  himself,  we  shall  have  her  burst- 
ing her  bodices.  All  seemed  pure  gain  to  this 
singular  statesman. 

As  for  Georgiana  herself,  she  floated  betwixt 
Earth  and  Heaven,  in  a  state  so  woven  of  light 
and  music  that  the  acts  of  benevolence  she  did  to 
those  about  her  were  little  more  to  her,  doing 
them,  than  assurances  that  she  still  waked  and 
lived  among  men.  She  touched  men,  as  it  were, 
to  be  safe,  and  sure  of  safety,  as  children  touch 
wood  in  the  garden  game.  But  a  great  elation 
was  upon  her,  a  universal  charity.  This  latest 
assumption  she  had  suffered  was  of  a  divinity. 
She  looked  down  from  her  skyey  throne  benev- 
olently upon  all  the  groping  world,  and  to  give 
every  denizen  what  he  desired  seemed  to  her  not 
only  charitable  but  reasonable,  and  only  danger- 
ous because  so  frankly  selfish  on  her  part.  It  hurt 
her,  when  she  thought  of  it,  to  realize  that  every- 
body was  not  as  happy  as  she.  Danger  to  her 
from  humored  men!  How  could  there  be  dan- 
ger to  a  woman  marked  by  Gervase  for  his  own 
by  kisses? 


FIRST  FRUITS  285 

It  was  not  that  she  was  merely  loved.  She 
had  been  loved  before,  and  was  loved  now,  by  two 
men.  It  was  not  that  she  loved  and  could  lavish 
her  treasure.  It  was  that,  loving,  she  was  be- 
loved by  him  whom  she  adored.  That  uplifted 
her,  that  mutuality.  There  was  confidence  as 
well  as  partnership.  From  the  first  moment  of 
surrender  she  had  been  sure  of  herself;  but  when 
he  came  to  seek  her  in  the  ballroom  she  had  been 
sure  of  him. 

Remembered  joy,  Nausithoe!  Score  it  up 
against  the  lean  years. 

Her  kindness  to  Charles,  as  good  as  a  comedy 
to  the  Duke,  watching  it  and  chuckling,  sprang 
not  only  from  that  benevolence  which  her  own 
well-being  excited  in  her;  it  was  prompted  also 
by  the  feeling  of  safety.  She  had  given  her  heart 
to  Gervase,  and  had  no  thought  what  was  done 
with  the  rest  of  her.  Charles  might  have  de- 
manded what  he  would  of  her,  and  have  had  it 
too,  without  any  harm  done  that  she  could  have 
seen.  So  she  was  kind  to  him,  and  even  cruelly 
kind;  she  drew  him  out,  poked  fun  at  him,  took 
his  arm  sometimes,  let  her  hand  stay  upon  his 
shoulder,  flattered  the  poor  man,  for  moments, 
out  of  his  depression.  Only  for  moments,  of 
course;  for  Charles  was  that  sort  of  man  who 
could  not  be  happy  in  Naples,  because  he  had  not 
been  to  Rome.  The  bitter  seed  remained  in  his 


286  MRS.  LANCELOT 

cup  that  so  many  years  had  passed  when  she  had 
not  been  so  kind  to  him  as  she  was  now,  and  that 
the  years  when  she  had  been  kinder  had  gone  for 
ever.  But  for  her,  at  least,  it  was  a  great  thing. 
She  was  no  longer  afraid  to  be  with  him  in  the 
evenings;  in  fact  she  welcomed  the  rare  event 
because  she  could  talk  to  him  about  Gervase  with 
perfect  comfort.  He  had  no  jealousy  of  Gervase ; 
she  had  found  that  out.  All  his  suspicions  were 
of  the  Duke. 

He  read  "  Nausithoe,"  and  they  discussed  it. 
Charles  considered  poetry  as  an  elegant  trifling. 
Gervase's  future  was  a  frequent  topic.  Charles 
considered  that  his  opinions  would  be  a  fatal  bar 
to  his  advancement  by  the  road  of  politics.  He 
knew  nothing  of  any  other  road.  He  asked  once, 
Could  not  Georgiana  employ  him  as  secretary? 
She  allowed  herself  to  bathe  in  the  golden  thought, 
lay,  as  it  were,  and  let  it  sleep  into  her  —  but 
laughingly  excused  herself. 

Once  or  twice,  perhaps,  she  had  the  poet  to 
dinner  when  Charles  was  there;  but  the  dinners 
were  not  successful.  Gervase  was  so  bored  by 
the  good  man  that  he  became  alarmed  for  his  own 
state  of  mind.  He  found  himself  shivering  like  a 
man  in  a  fever.  He  did  not  mean  to  be  rude  — 
naturally,  he  was  blunt  but  not  discourteous;  but 
Charles  had  the  effect  upon  him  of  stirring  him  to 
impotent  rage.  He  wanted  to  break  up  Charles; 


FIRST  FRUITS  287 

he  was  consumed  with  the  desire  to  cut  him  some- 
where and  discover  real  blood;  to  shock  him  into 
a  human  cry;  to  take  him  unawares  and  find  a 
man  under  the  smooth  vellum.  Charles,  he  said, 
made  him  feel  like  the  Tempter  of  our  Lord. 
He  would  have  flown  with  him  to  the  Cross  of 
St.  Paul's,  to  show  him  the  kingdoms  of  the  world 
and  the  glory  of  them,  but  that  he  would  most 
certainly  have  thrown  him  over  the  parapet,  to  be 
satisfied  by  that  violent  proof  that  this  being,  who 
did  not  seem  to  live,  could  die.  After  dinner, 
when  his  host  had  gone  to  the  House  of  Commons, 
Gervase  would  stalk  the  drawing-room  and  rave. 
Charles's  urbane,  constant,  monumental  dullness 
made  him  incoherent.  He  denied  him  virtue, 
unless  a  jelly-fish  had  virtue;  he  denied  him  at- 
tributes. He  could  only  be  judged  by  the  ab- 
sence of  attributes.  He  was  the  Everlasting 
Nay;  he  was  like  the  Mosaic  Commandments, 
which  told  you  what  you  should  not  do,  but  gave 
no  hint  of  what  you  should. 

When  the  Duke  was  present  things  went  much 
better.  Gervase  disapproved  of  the  Duke,  but 
respected  his  strong  mediocrity.  The  Duke  was 
common-sense  incarnate:  by  that  nothing  what- 
ever could  be  done,  but  all  could  be  maintained. 
The  Duke  was  the  journeyman  of  the  state,  who 
kept  the  parts  oiled,  and  had  the  grace  of  being 
able  to  laugh  at  the  work  he  did  without  ceasing 


288  MRS.  LANCELOT 

to  do  it.  And  an  autocrat,  he  said,  was  ten 
thousand  times  better  than  an  official.  An  official 
goes  by  rules  which  cannot  fit  any  case  at  all  — 
since  every  case  varies  from  every  other  case.  A 
despot  goes  by  will,  which  can  be  modified  by 
other  wills,  and  swayed  by  living  considerations. 
He  and  the  Duke,  in  fact,  amused  each  other. 
His  handling  of  Reform  —  that  burning  topic  — 
as  a  thing  too  obvious  to  be  worth  discussion  was 
a  continued  delight  to  Reform's  stout  opponent. 
To  Charles  it  was  extremely  offensive.  "  Get  it, 
get  it,  by  all  manner  of  means,"  the  Duke  used  to 
say;  "  raise  the  country,  and  you  '11  have  it.  But 
if  you  break  the  law  I  shall  put  you  in  jail." 
"  Your  Grace  talks  of  the  law  of  England  as  if  it 
was  the  Law  of  God."  "  So  it  is,  young  man, 
while  the  King  lives  and  reigns."  "  The  Lord's 
Anointed !  "  cried  Gervase  in  a  fume.  "  The 
Lord's  Anointed,"  said  the  Duke  with  plain 
gravity.  What  are  you  to  do  with  a  man  who 
says  plumply  that  he  believes  the  King  to  be  the 
Lord's  Anointed?  In  its  way  that  is  a  sublime 
belief.  So  is  that  which  says  that  the  earth  is 
flat.  Gervase  was  not  at  all  intolerant  of  opin- 
ion. What  he  abominated  was  the  absence  of 
opinion. 

But  he  would  take  nothing  of  the  Duke  in  the 
way  of  hospitality  or  bounty.  He  would  dine  in 
his  company,  at  Georgiana's  table,  but  not  at 


G 

15 


FIRST  FRUITS  291 

his  own.  And  he  would  take  no  office  at  his 
hands. 

Meanwhile,  during  one  golden,  perfect  month 
reigned  the  summer  of  Mrs.  Lancelot's  life.  The 
halcyon  time,  they  called  it  afterwards,  from  a 
poem  of  Gervase's  which  described  her  coming  out 
to  him  in  the  early  morning,  in  her  close  blue 
gown: 

When  like  a  halcyon  in  his  bronze  of  blue 
Forthward  she  flashed  — 

it  begins  —  and  has  her  fast.  Reading  herself  in 
this  and  other  of  his  pieces  was  like  looking  at 
herself  in  a  magic  glass  and  seeing  all  her  familiar 
features  enhanced  and  burning  bright.  Was  this 
the  face?  Was  this  lovely  and  glorious  image 
Georgiana  Lancelot's?  She  might  have  fallen  in 
love  with  herself,  urged  by  him  to  the  state  of 
Narcissus;  but  she  knew  that  he  was  deceived, 
and  loved  him  the  more  for  it.  O  Gervase,  O 
fierce  lover,  O  poet,  was  it  possible  that  he  had 
loved  her  so  long,  and  she  had  never  known  it? 
What  glory  for  her,  what  constancy  in  him ! 

She  took  a  pride  in  herself  which  she  had 
never  had  before.  Her  dress,  her  ornaments,  the 
manner  of  her  hair  became  a  delight.  Admiration 
in  the  world  was  so  much  tribute  to  the  discern- 
ment of  Gervase,  who  had  seen  her  fair  and  sung 


292  MRS.  LANCELOT 

her  divine  long  before  the  world  had  known  her 
so.  This  was  very  unjust  to  the  Duke  of  Devizes, 
to  say  nothing  of  Charles;  but  she  could  not  give 
by  halves  to  one  who  gave  her  all.  She  not  only 
tended  her  person;  she  was  concerned  for  her  mind 
too.  She  read  in  all  her  spare  hours,  and  followed 
breathlessly  in  his  meteor  wake.  The  time  they 
actually  spent  together  was  almost  nothing  by  the 
clock;  but  they  wasted  none  of  it.  From  the  mo- 
ment when  she  fell  into  his  arms  the  assumption, 
the  chief  of  many,  was  made.  She  believed  ev- 
erything, took  everything  for  granted,  and  so  did 
he.  Their  confidences  were  as  complete  as  their 
confidence.  He  had  nothing  to  conceal,  and  she 
concealed  nothing  —  even  of  that  which  she 
should.  But  it  was  a  test  of  loyalty,  and  an  enor- 
mous comfort.  He  hated  to  be  told  of  her  wooing 
and  marrying;  but  he  must  have  it  all.  She  told 
him  of  the  death  of  her  baby,  not  accusing  Charles. 
That  he  did  for  himself;  he  accused  him  bitterly. 
It  added  vitriol  to  his  scorn  of  the  man  with  which 
one  day  to  bite  him.  By  the  clock  they  met  per- 
haps for  three  hours  a  week;  every  two  days  he 
wrote  to  her  or  sent  her  a  poem.  But  full  pos- 
session lasted  from  sight  to  sight.  There  was  not 
a  moment  of  the  day  when  she  was  not  filled  with 
the  sense  of  Gervase;  not  a  moment  when,  in  the 
midst  of  some  crowded  assembly,  she  could  not 
shut  her  eyes  and  see  him  —  see  him,  hear  his 


FIRST  FRUITS  293 

voice,  feel  his  kisses.  She  triumphed  in  her  pen- 
ury which  gave  her  such  strength  as  this.  Posi- 
tively she  believed  herself  more  certain  of  him 
when  he  was  not  with  her  than  when  he  was. 

For  Gervase,  of  course,  was  an  exorbitant  lover. 
Entirely  careless  of  the  world's  opinion,  he  was 
as  delicate  as  a  weathercock  to  the  lightest  flicker 
in  the  breath  of  hers.  His  claim  upon  her  — 
once  she  had  owned  to  her  love  —  was  limitless. 
He  arrogated  every  right  —  and  she  felt  that,  and 
dreaded  the  hour  when  he  should  become  ex- 
plicit. She  understood  that  what  would  satisfy 
her  would  not  him.  That  was  the  swinging  sword 
overhead  which  made  her  joy  so  fearful  and  so 
intense.  It  made  her  eyes  wistful,  and  her  mouth 
avid  for  the  kisses  of  his  mouth,  lest  the  day  should 
come  soon  when  she  would  have  to  decide  whether 
she  could  have  them  or  not.  She  was  conscious, 
therefore,  of  a  feverishness  in  their  intercourse, 
which  he  took  from  her,  without  realizing  what  it 
meant. 

But  he  had  his  better  times,  when  he  was, 
surely,  the  most  delightful  companion  in  the 
world.  He  had  a  strong  sense  of  humor,  and  col- 
ored with  it  everything  he  touched.  His  eye  for 
likenesses  was  extraordinary.  Men  strutted  and 
peered  in  birds;  birds  flapped  along  the  pavements 
like  men.  He  made  up  stories  as  they  walked  of 
all  the  people  they  met  —  romances  in  which  cross- 
19 


294  MRS.  LANCELOT 

ing-sweepers  and  orange-women,  whiskered  foot- 
men and  stout  clergymen,  and  nursemaids, 
potboys,  dandies,  and  deuce-knows-who  were  the 
victims  or  avengers  of  terrific  love  affairs.  He 
was  as  quick  to  tears  as  to  laughter,  a  fiery  enthu- 
siast for  beauty,  courage,  swiftness,  truth,  and  sim- 
plicity. He  was  without  any  sort  of  self-con- 
sciousness —  careless  in  his  dress  and  in  what 
he  did.  But  he  never  did  anything  of  which 
an  honest  man  might  be  ashamed,  and  did  the 
business  in  hand  with  such  perfect  sincerity  that 
there  could  be  no  sting  in  it  due  from  any 
one  with  the  power  to  wound  him. 

Two  things  in  the  world  he  hated :  dullness  and 
affectation.  All  other  things  he  was  ready  to 
love;  but  next  to  women  he  thought  trees  the 
most  glorious  work  of  the  Creator,  and  was  sure 
that  they  had  souls.  He  went  out  with  Georgiana 
once  to  see  a  review  of  troops  in  Hyde  Park  and 
looked  at  the  trees  the  whole  time.  He  would 
talk  of  nothing  else.  The  splendid  immobility  of 
them,  their  plain  kinship  with  what  is  permanent, 
essential  and  abiding  in  the  universe,  showed  men, 
he  said,  like  lice.  From  this  ruling  he  excepted 
women,  however,  who  to  him  were  not  human. 
But  here,  as  elsewhere,  it  was  impossible  to  know 
whether  he  was  serious  or  not;  for  he  had  a  way 
of  stating  his  most  preposterous  inventions  in  a 
plain  voice,  as  when  he  alleged  that  the  Archbishop 


FIRST  FRUITS  295 

of  York  had  silver  soles  to  his  feet  owing  to  an 

accident  at  birth,  and  that  Lord  J y  drove 

out  daily  in  his  curricle  accompanied  by  eagles  as 
supporters.  There  's  no  doubt  he  believed  these 
fables  at  the  time.  On  the  other  hand,  he  flamed 
forth  as  the  paradoxes  of  an  Irish  orator  some  of 
his  dearest  convictions.  It  was  good  to  hear  him 
upon  Reform  with  the  Duke  —  good  for  all  but 
Charles,  who  regarded  the  status  quo  as  of  high 
moral  value  and  not  as  a  convenience  to  business. 
But,  after  all,  he  had  come  into  the  world  to 
be  a  poet,  and  such  he  was  from  the  tissues.  He 
breathed  poetry,  thought  in  its  terms,  lived  and 
loved  in  and  by  it.  Ideas  were  things  to  him, 
and  things  had  appearance  because  they  were  ideas. 
This  put  him  counter  to  the  rest  of  the  world, 
in  the  which  opposition  even  Georgiana  found 
herself  more  than  once.  Even  when  he  clasped 
her,  kissed  her,  adored  her,  she  felt  that  what  he 
so  loved  might  quite  easily  have  been  a  tree  or 
a  sunlit  cloud.  He  admitted  that  in  quieter  mo- 
ments, and  added  that  she  might  equally  well  have 
been  Goodness,  Temperance,  Justice,  or  Fortitude ; 
for  such  were  real  to  him  because  they  could  be  ex- 
pressed in  beauty.  There  threatened  —  and  she 
felt  it  —  a  time  when  the  discrepancy  between 
what  he  thought  her  and  what  she  knew  that  she 
was  must  yawn  and  sever  them ;  but  he  said  No  to 
that.  Before  ever  that  gulf  could  be  reached  she 


296  MRS.  LANCELOT 

would  be  his,  one  with  him,  in  flesh  as  well  as  in 
spirit.  Not  yet,  at  his  fiercest,  had  he  urged  that 
completion  of  their  love;  but  every  stave  of  the 
poem  which  composed  their  intercourse  implied 
that,  and  her  courage  fainted  when  she  thought  of 
the  time  when  this  forking  of  ways  must  be  met. 

For  the  one  vital  difference  between  their  na- 
tures was  this,  that  Gervase  believed  passion  to  be 
a  divine  urgency,  and  she  that  it  might  well  be  of 
the  devil. 


THIS  halcyon  time  ended  perforce  with  the 
days  of  parliament.  The  prorogation  came 
in  the  third  week  of  August,  and  then  the  great 
world  flitted,  leaving  London  empty,  and  Gervase 
in  it,  gnashing  his  teeth.  ,*•. 

The  Lancelots  were  going  first  to  Thorntree, 
later  to  join  the  Duke  in  a  round  of  visits.  Ger- 
vase now  had  actually  to  face  separation  from 
his  mistress.  An  open  invitation  from  the  Duke 
was  at  his  service,  but  he  would  not  have  it. 

He  met  her  the  night  before  her  departure, 
and  faced  it  in  his  worst  mood. 

"  This  is  horrible,"  he  said,  having  her  in  his 
arms;  and  his  words  in  contrast  with  his  embrace 
seemed  to  her  most  dreadful.  "  For  a  silly  custom 
you  suffer  me  to  be  divorced.  We  belong  to  each 
other  by  the  most  sacred  of  ties.  What  I  After 
what  has  passed  between  us  —  vows  of  the  lips, 
oaths  of  the  eyes,  chrism  of  the  heart  —  you  think 
we  are  not  one !  But  we  are  one  —  nothing 
ought  to  separate  us.  And  you  go  from  me  with 
one  man,  and  then  court  the  company  of  another 

297 


298  MRS.  LANCELOT 

—  and  I,  your  true  husband,  am  left  here.  Oh, 
my  adored,  it  is  monstrous  —  monstrous  !  But 
you  submit  —  it  is  that  which  kills  me  —  you  sub- 
mit to  a  servitude.  You  don't  rebel;  you  don't 
even  desire  to  rebel.  You  fold  your  hands,  bow 
your  head,  and  this  foul  machine  —  Juggernaut 
brown  with  old  blood,  and  slippery  with  new  — 
drives  over  you.  You  lift  up  your  eyes,  you  sigh, 
'  Blessed  be  the  Lord  our  God !  '  and  the  wheels 
crush  your  bright  body  into  the  dust !  Death  and 
Despair!  " 

She  soothed  him  with  voice  and  hand;  she 
anointed  him  with  her  eyes,  with  her  lips;  she 
reasoned  with  him  —  but  he  would  hardly 
listen. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said.  "  You  have  given  me  your 
heart,  and  thereby  I  have  all  —  I  have  all. 
Those  others  have  no  rights.  If  you  were  to  say 
to  Lancelot,  '  I  cannot  come  with  you.  I  have 
affairs  in  town,'  what  could  he  say?  What  could 
he  do?" 

"  Dearest,"  she  said,  smiling  sadly  enough,  "  he 
could  ask,  *  What  are  your  affairs?  ' 

"  Then,"  said  he,  "  you  could  tell  him  what  they 
were.  I  will  tell  him  myself,  if  you  like.  It  is 
time." 

What  was  there  to  say  but  "  Dearest!  "  what 
to  do  but  to  kiss  the  preposterous  creature? 

He  arrogated  to  himself  absolute  disposal  of  her 


WOUNDS  IN  THE  OPEN         299 

heart,  time,  and  person.  He  set  no  bounds  to  the 
charter  which,  as  he  said,  she  had  sealed  on  his  lips 
with  hers.  The  heart  had  spoken.  What  did 
that  involve?  What  inference  must  be  drawn? 
Why,  every  consequence  —  every  inference.  All 
was  his,  that  being  his.  How  could  the  body  do, 
without  sin,  that  which  the  heart  would  not?  He 
raised  his  hand  to  heaven  above  her  head.  "  By 
all  honor,  all  truth,  all  reason,  all  justice,  you  are 
mine.  And  they  tear  us  apart  —  you  and  me ! 
Let  God  hear  me  —  this  is  iniquity." 

He  would  have  carried  her  off  then  and  there 
—  he  made  it  a  grievance  that  she  gently  denied 
him.  Yet  (probably)  if  she  had  consented,  he 
would  have  denied  himself.  Such  was  Gervase,  a 
true  poet,  and  a  preposterous  young  man. 

He  seemed  to  draw  her  soul  shuddering  out 
from  her  lips,  he  strained  her  to  him  until  she 
gasped  with  pain  —  but  he  went  out  in  a  tempest 
of  resentment  —  gave  her  a  dreadful  night,  and 
himself  one  of  delirium  —  and  next  morning  she 
received  six  sheets  (there  was  no  reason  why  they 
should  not  have  been  twelve)  full  of  contrition, 
vows,  promises  of  amendment.  With  that  in  her 
bosom  she  set  out  for  Gloucestershire. 

He  wrote  to  her  every  day  —  his  letters  franked 
(absurdly  enough)  with  the  flowing  script  and 
style  "  Devizes."  With  no  less  incongruity  (with 


300  MRS.  LANCELOT 

more  perhaps  —  and  she  felt  it)  her  replies  bore 
the  name  "  Charles  Lancelot." 

Every  letter  he  sent  her  was  in  truth  a  poem, 
written  with  his  heart's  blood.  She  felt  a  dread- 
ful reality  beneath  the  impossible  ascriptions  he 
gave  her,  and  a  dreadful  certainty  that  life  and 
death  were  now  involved  in  their  common  busi- 
ness. So  real  was  the  strange  world  in  the  which 
every  word  he  wrote  he  dipped  her  the  deeper  that 
the  life  of  her  old  home  —  her  father's  county 
duties,  her  mother's  airs  of  county  lady,  Diana's 
flirtations,  and  Augusta's  nursery  —  seemed  like 
comic  opera.  She  sat,  a  bored  or  scared  spectator, 
absorbed  in  her  own  tragic  affair;  she  spoke  at 
random,  loved  to  be  by  herself.  The  daily  post 
was  her  bidding-bell,  which  summoned  her  one 
more  stage  upon  the  fateful  journey  she  was 
going. 

Gervase  was  an  inexorable  lover.  There  was 
no  escape  from  him.  He  waxed  under  the  ardor 
of  his  own  mood,  as  if  warming  himself  at  his  own 
fire,  until  his  whole  being  was  incandescent.  His 
words  seemed  to  have  dripped  hissing  to  the  pa- 
per, to  have  burned  themselves  there.  She  could 
almost  read  them  through  their  cover,  and 
wondered  sometimes  how  the  wax  could  hold  them, 
and  not  melt.  She  could  not  by  any  means  cope 
with  them  —  though  they  affected  her  dreadfully. 
She  used  to  sit  trembling  with  them  in  her  lap,  pale 


.WOUNDS  IN  THE  OPEN         301 

and  trembling ;  then  with  a  long  sigh  she  would  go 
about  her  duties  such  as  they  were,  and  when  she 
was  recovered  would  write  a  guarded  reply.  If 
she  had  answered,  as  he  writ,  in  the  heat,  God 
knows  what  she  might  not  have  said.  She  had 
not  tongues  naturally,  and  all  her  instinct  was  to- 
wards compromise.  Alas,  her  temperance  was 
a  stumbling-block  to  him.  The  tide  of  his  passion 
boiled  and  swirled  round  against  it;  rose,  topped 
it,  carried  it  away  and  rushed  forward,  heaving, 
to  the  sea  —  a  sea  to  which  it  was  carrying  her 
too.  And,  half  fainting,  she  knew  it  and,  half 
fainting,  was  glad  and  unutterably  happy.  But 
the  night,  the  desperate,  inexorable,  leaden-footed 
night  brought  her,  at  least,  counsel,  if  not  sleep  — 
and  she  began  the  battle  again. 

For  she  was  absolutely  clear  in  her  own  mind  of 
two  things  —  that  she  loved  him  entirely,  and  that 
she  must  not  yield.  It  was  impossible  to  her  to 
deny  either  proposition.  They  were  self-evident. 
It  is  a  marvel  that  one  at  least  of  them  was  not 
evident  to  all  the  world.  But  so  far,  only  one 
person  knew  it  (and  he  was  at  Marston  Mortimer 
entertaining  a  Royal  Duke,  whom  Georgiana  had 
excused  herself  from  meeting,  on  grounds  too 
plain  to  be  refused) ;  and  one  person  suspected  — 
Gussy,  her  younger  sister.  The  loyal,  unhappy, 
frost-bitten  Charles  knew  nothing.  All  his  jeal- 
ous eyes  were  for  another,  who,  fine  man,  was  per- 


302  MRS.  LANCELOT 

fectly  negligible.  He  should  have  turned  on  the 
Duke  hopeful  eyes,  if  he  had  known  the  truth  — 
all  his  hopes  were  really  there. 

So  August  wore  through,  and  in  September  the 
Lancelots  left  Thorntree  and  proceeded  to  pay 
visits,  mapping  out  a  progress  which  should  take 
them  through  the  West  into  Sussex,  where  the 
Duke  expected  them. 

Letters  pursued  her  wherever  she  went,  and  had 
to  be  answered.  Charles's  ducal  bag  saved  her 
from  many  prying  eyes  —  and  Charles  himself 
never  dreamed  of  looking  at  her  correspondence. 
Such  a  deed  would  have  been  impossible  to  him  — 
not  from  any  clear  motive  of  honor,  but  because 
the  act  of  prying  would  have  admitted  to  himself 
that  he  was  jealous;  and  his  self-esteem  could  not 
have  supported  such  an  avowal.  Queer  are  the 
motives  which  prompt  the  actions  of  us  men ! 

But,  in  the  pressure  of  her  private  cares,  poor 
Charles  could  make  no  headway.  His  complete 
ignorance  of  them  gave  him  an  insignificance  in 
her  eyes  which  was  actually  offensive.  He  belit- 
tled himself;  she  felt  sometimes  as  if  she  were 
dragging  him  after  her  like  a  bramble  at  her  skirt; 
at  other  times  (under  Gervase's  spell)  as  if  it  were 
he  who  dragged,  and  she  who  felt  the  scorch  of 
the  fetter.  He  was  a  continual  reminder  to  her 
of  irksome  duty;  she  could  hardly  bring  herself 


WOUNDS  IN  THE  OPEN         303 

to  be  civil  to  him,  so  much  he  fretted  her  nerves. 
Luckily  for  her,  every  house  she  went  to  was  full 
of  company.  She  plunged  into  the  fussy  triviali- 
ties of  the  life,  chattered,  laughed,  listened  to 
bores.  By  such  means,  for  moments  at  a  time, 
she  drowned  in  shrill  noise  the  wailing  in  her  heart. 
If  Gervase  could  have  seen  her,  flushed,  glitter- 
ing thing  that  she  was,  he  would  have  denied  her 
a  heart  at  all. 

Lady  B 's  party,  which  a  diarist,  already 

quoted,  has  hit  off  for  us,  was  the  last  she  joined 
before  going  to  Marston.  There  she  met  the 
Duke,  and  with  him  was  to  go  on  to  his  house. 
She  was  the  most  courted,  but  the  most  elusive 
guest ;  for  the  Duke  and  politics  claimed  her.  Pol- 
itics were  gathering  to  a  head.  February,  it  was 
supposed,  or  May  at  latest,  would  see  the  Reform 
Bill  before  the  Lords  —  and  what  was  the  party  to 
do?  It  was  no  secret  that  the  King  wanted  the 
Ministry  out.  He  had  quarreled  with  nearly 
every  member  of  it,  and  was  beginning  to  distrust 
the  Duke.  Correspondence  flowed  upon  him. 
The  library  tables  brimmed  with  it,  and  from 
Windsor  every  day  came  a  note  by  a  special  mes- 
senger, requiring  some  sort  of  answer.  Charles 
was  in  high  fettle.  He  loved  such  detail,  and 
could  forget  his  troubles  in  it.  Georgiana  found  it 
very  difficult  to  be  interested,  and  the  Duke  was 
unaffectedly  bored.  He  had  been  overjoyed  to 


304  MRS.  LANCELOT 

see  her  again  —  had  ridden  out  half-a-dozen  miles 
to  meet  her.  He  had  her  to  himself  both  before 
and  after  dinner ;  scolded  her  for  her  thinness,  for 
her  pale  cheeks  —  met  pleasantly,  not  seriously, 
and  did  not  press  for  explanations.  He  asked 
after  "  her  poet,"  was  told  that  she  "  heard  from 
him,"  nodded  and  pretended  that  nothing  was  hap- 
pening. 

But  much  was  happening;  in  fact,  the  out- 
rageous young  man,  after  a  day  or  two  of  silence, 
came  to  Bagington,  hovered  on  the  outskirts  — 
the  thickets  of  the  park  and  what  not  — and  pres- 
ently contrived  to  make  his  presence  known  to 
Georgiana.  Between  joy  at  his  nearness,  terror 
at  his  daring,  and  fear  of  eyes  the  poor  lady 
nearly  succumbed. 

The  note  was  brought  to  her  by  her  maid 
when  she  was  dressing.  An  hour  was  named  — 
"  to-morrow  at  eleven  " —  by  a  certain  great  tree 
in  the  park.  It  might  as  well  have  been  on  the 
lawn  before  the  morning-room  windows.  She  — 
in  desperation  —  she  was  like  a  trapped  mouse  — 
burned  it  and  made  no  reply.  The  morrow  must 
provide  for  the  things  of  itself.  She  had  too  much 
on  her  hands  for  this  night  —  a  great  dinner  in  a 
house  full  of  people. 

The  diarist  remarked  her  pallor,  and  remarked 
upon  it  to  her  husband.  "  Lancelot,  your  wife 


WOUNDS  IN  THE  OPEN         305 

works  too  hard.  She  looks  as  if  she  saw  ghosts." 
Nausithoe's  fate  leaped  into  Charles's  mind;  he 
made  formal  answer. 

The  racket  of  the  interminable  evening  passed 
over.  Talk,  and  the  fictitious  interest  which  is 
necessary  to  it,  and  can  be  feigned,  filled  it.  You 
have  to  be  a  very  great  man  indeed  to  be  able  to 
be  silent  at  such  a  party.  Such  was  the  Duke. 
He  stood,  most  of  the  time  after  dinner,  stiff, 
looking  straight  before  him,  but  Georgiana,  whom 
he  honestly  loved,  was  always  within  his  field  of 
vision.  He  knew  that  she  was  disturbed,  though 
so  great  was  her  self-command  that  nobody  else 
knew  it  at  all. 

Her  agitation  was  due  to  the  knowledge  of 
Gervase  so  near  her,  and  yet  so  entirely  out  of  her 
reach.  Her  eyes,  wandering,  vaguely  searching, 
sometimes  fixed  themselves  upon  the  windows, 
rested  there,  straining,  staring,  as  if  to  see  through 
them,  through  the  dark,  through  the  mist.  She 
felt  certain  that  he  was  there.  This  made  her 
shiver,  left  her  trembling. 

She  went  to  bed,  but  did  not  dare  look  out 
into  the  night.  She  had  a  feeling  that  he  would 
call  her.  And  if  he  did,  she  knew  that  she  would 

go- 

And  how  she  longed  to  go,  ached  to  go,  she 

dared  not  reveal  to  herself. 


306  MRS.  LANCELOT 

A  hasty  two  words  passed  with  the  Duke  at 
candle-lighting  time  — "  Georgie,  you  are  upset. 
What's  the  matter?" 

"  Nothing,  nothing  —  I  'm  tired,  I  think. 
There  's  so  much  talking.  We  are  always  talking, 
are  n't  we?  Is  n't  it  extraordinary?  " 

"  I  don't  talk.     I  watch  —  you." 

She  was  petulant.  "  Please  don't  do  that.  I 
feel  it  sometimes.  It  troubles  me.  You  seldom 
do  that." 

"  You  shall  be  obeyed.  But  I  know  that  some- 
thing is  going  on  —  which  you  don't  like." 

She  made  no  answer.  All  he  could  add  was, 
"  If  I  can  be  of  use  to  you  —  in  anything  —  don't 
fail  to  let  me  know.  To  fail  in  that  would  be 
failing  me  indeed." 

She  succeeded  in  looking  at  him.  "  No,"  she 
said,  "  I  won't  fail  you,  Duke."  He  kissed  her 
hand  and  left  her.  She  shrouded  herself  in  the 
dark,  and  lay  half  the  night  listening,  trembling, 
glowing  at  the  thought  that  he  was  there,  that  she 
should  see  him  to-morrow. 

In  spite  of  the  suffering  he  had  caused  her, 
the  actual  sight  of  her  lover  assured  him  a  smooth 
face  and  a  bright-eyed  welcome.  There  was 
added,  to  enhance  the  effect,  real  admiration  of 
his  daring.  Gervase  was  certainly  incalculable, 
splendidly  out  of  the  ruck  of  men.  She  came 


WOUNDS  IN  THE  OPEN         307 

to  him,  then,  rosy,  sparkling,  with  welcoming  warm 
lips  — "  Oh,  my  dearest,  how  wicked  of  you !  " — 
but  how  she  loved  him  for  his  wickedness! 
"  How  could  you  do  it?  "  Why,  what  else  could 
he  have  done?  "Indeed,  I  love  you  beyond 
words  —  but  you  terrify  me." 

His  first  answer  was  to  enfold  her  in  his  arms, 
his  next  to  be  the  most  reasonable  man  alive. 

"  It  would  have  been  impossible  —  feeling  as  I 
do  —  to  have  kept  away  from  you  any  longer. 
There  is  a  breaking-point  to  every  strain.  Let- 
ters! How  can  they  express  you?  Or  poetry? 
How  can  you  write  poetry  in  the  midst  of  stress? 
The  stress  must  have  passed;  the  mood  must  be 
tranquil.  I  have  n't  composed  a  line  since  I  left 
you  six  weeks  ago." 

She  flashed  him  a  radiant  look.  "No  poems! 
And  your  letters  I  " 

He  ignored  these  burning  odes.  "  I  had  to 
write,  for  mere  life.  But  enough.  That  is  over 
now  that  I  have  you.  Don't  ask  me  how  I  have 
lived  —  or  where.  I  don't  know.  For  that  mat- 
ter, twopence  a  week  or  whatever  it  may  be  gives 
you  a  narrow  range.  I  believe  I  am  in  debt  to  my 
landlady.  I  'm  not  certain.  She  will  tell  you. 
.  .  .  Oh,  I  suppose  I  have  been  nourished,  as  far 
as  that  goes.  Bread  is  not  dear  just  now.  .  .  . 
But  the  bread  of  the  soul  is  dear,  my  angel  —  I  am 


308  MRS.  LANCELOT 

starving  in  the  soul.  It 's  not  reasonable  to  ask 
me  to  live  like  this.  It 's  bad  for  me,  and  bad 
for  you." 

She  clung  to  him,  nestled  in  his  arms.  All  her 
own  troubles  were  put  away,  to  succor  him  in  his. 
Far  more  real  as  they  were,  she  ignored  them. 
"  My  dear  one,  my  dear  one,  I  know  how  dreadful 
it  must  be  for  you.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  would 
give  the  world  up  to  make  you  happy — " 

"  It  would  make  you  happy,  my  angel,  or  I 
know  nothing  of  women  —  least  of  all  women,  of 
you.  Ah,  what  a  life  we  could  make  it,  you  and 
I!  What  a  life!" 

She  quivered  —  she  could  not  trust  her  voice. 
For  her  powers  of  vivid  dreaming  were  as  great 
as  his,  though  he  had  expression  and  she  none. 

He  went  on  — "  I  see  it,  I  see  it  all.  You  and 
I,  wholly  one,  as  we  are  now  in  part  —  in  this 
maimed  life,  in  rat-traps.  You  in  a  trap  —  I  in 
a  trap  — running  round  and  round  — '  I  can't  get 
out !  I  can't  get  out !  '  Oh,  horrible  slavery  I 
And  what  adds  mockery  to  horror  is  that  we  can 
get  out."  He  strained  her  in  his  arms.  "  My 
adored  one,  we  can  get  out  immediately.  We  can 
ge.t  out  at  this  moment.  Oh,  you  must  see  it. 
Tell  me  — shall  it  be?" 

She  faltered,  stared.  Her  lips  parted,  the 
lower  lip  fell.  "  Oh,  Gervase,  what  do  you 
mean?  " 


Come,  my  beloved,  come — 


WOUNDS  IN  THE  OPEN         311 

His  words  scorched  her.  "  Fly,  fly,  fly  —  fly 
with  me !  We  will  go  now  —  and  forever.  You 
shall  leave  these  hard,  bitter  men  —  these  glitter- 
ing sepulchers  of  lies  and  vanity  and  sham.  You 
shall  come  with  me  to  Italy,  my  soul  —  you  and 
I  will  be  the  only  real  persons  in  the  whole  world 
—  live  life  to  the  full  —  the  mind,  the  heart,  the 
soul,  the  body,  all  intensely  alive  —  quivering  with 
life  and  light.  Come,  my  beloved,  come  —  this 
moment  —  come." 

She  was  dreadfully  frightened:  her  eyes  were 
enormous,  her  mouth  all  drawn  together  to  a 
mere  bud.  "  Oh,  my  dearest,  I  could  n't  do  that. 
Don't  ask  me  that.  Oh,  no,  no,  no !  " 

He  pressed  her  the  closer,  storming  down  her 
refusals.  "  But  I  do,  I  do,  because  I  must." 

She  shut  her  eyes ;  she  turned  ashy  white.  This 
was  the  hour  of  fate.  She  had  no  strength  to 
speak,  but  her  lips  framed  the  "  No,  no,"  unmis- 
takably. 

"  You  cannot?     You  refuse?     I  am  to  go?" 

Desperate,  poor  soul,  she  nodded  her  head. 
He  released  her.  He  was  as  hard  as  iron,  and 
as  cold. 

"  Then  the  thing  is  over.  I  go.  You  have 
the  right  —  you  are  to  choose.  For  all  that  you 
have  given  me,  I  bless  your  name.  For  all  that 
you  are  and  must  be  —  I  give  thanks  to  God." 

He  turned  and  left  her.     She  was  deadly  calm 


312  MRS.  LANCELOT 

—  white  and  fixed.  Her  eyes  burned  black,  her 
lips  were  close,  and  colorless.  With  him,  it 
seemed,  went  all  that  warmth  which  could  give 
her  color.  He  might  have  drained  all  her  blood 
out  and  taken  it  with  him  in  a  bottle.  She  did 
not  move,  could  not  speak;  but  she  looked  after 
him  so  long  as  she  could  see  anything  —  then 
began  to  rock  to  and  fro.  She  put  out  her  hands 
to  steady  herself,  to  balance  on  them  as  a  bird 
on  his  wings,  or  a  rope-dancer  on  his  bending 
pole.  Then  she  came  to  herself,  saw  her  desola- 
tion, threw  her  arm  against  the  tree  for  support, 
and,  leaning  her  face  into  the  crook  of  it,  sobbed 
convulsively,  and  broke  down.  There  she  re- 
mained until  she  felt  a  hand  upon  her  shoulder, 
and  heard  the  Duke's  voice. 

He  had  been  riding  in  the  park,  with  only  a 
groom.  He  had  ordered  it  to  be  so.  Cantering 
easily  over  the  turf,  his  eye  had  caught  sight  of 
a  tall  man  in  black  striding  bareheaded  towards 
the  carriage-drive  and  lodge  gate.  "  Oho!  "  He 
swept  the  horizon  —  with  eyes  like  a  wind- 
hover's. Then  he  turned  to  his  groom.  "  I 
shall  get  off,  and  walk  up  to  the  house.  Take 
my  horse,  and  go  straight  to  the  stables."  He 
dismounted  and  led  his  horse  to  the  man,  put  the 
reins  in  his  hand.  "  That 's  your  way,"  he  told 
him,  and  pointed  it  out.  It  led  him  to  the  drive, 


WOUNDS  IN  THE  OPEN         313 

well  above  the  point  where  Gervase  would  cut 
into  it  on  his  tangent,  directly  away  from  where 
he  saw  the  weeping  Georgiana. 

The  man  obeyed  him  and  trotted  off  with  the 
pair  of  animals.  The  Duke  walked  briskly  over 
the  grass. 

Georgiana  at  his  "  My  poor  child,  why  did  n't 
you  tell  me  of  your  troubles?  Come  and  cry  on 
my  shoulder  " —  obeyed  him.  He  soothed  her  as 
a  mother  would  a  child  unhappy. 


X 

LOCAL    REMEDY 

SHE  took  his  arm,  the  drooping  child  that  she 
seemed,  beaten  almost  to  a  shade,  and  was 
grateful  to  him  for  his  silence.  He  said  nothing 
at  all,  but  patted  her  hand  from  time  to  time, 
and  when  she  was  recovered,  devoted  himself 
to  her  for  the  rest  of  the  way  with  a  simplicity 
which  was  highly  honorable  to  him.  He  told  her 
stories,  cracked  jokes,  rallied  her  —  got  her  into 
a  more  rational  mood. 

Charles  had  seen  them  coming  from  the  library 
windows.  There  he  sat  with  his  despatch-boxes 
and  secretaries,  immersed  in  business,  but  with  his 
brain  on  fire.  He  was  suffering  damnable  things. 
His  pale  face  and  hollow  cheeks,  his  lantern  jaws 
and  great  burning  black  eyes  showed  it.  But  he 
possessed  infinite  capacities  of  endurance  it 
seemed.  And  so,  sighing,  he  compressed  his  lips 
and  turned  to  his  business.  When  the  Duke  came 
into  the  room  he  was  received  with  his  junior's 
usual  urbane  deference. 

Lancelot  was  in  this  extraordinary  position 
that,  really  loving  his  wife,  and  desperately 


LOCAL  REMEDY  315 

jealous  of  the  Duke's  position  with  regard  to  her, 
he  was  incapable  of  hating  the  Duke.  He  ad- 
mired his  parts  and  respected  them,  he  adored  his 
greatness  as  much  as  ever  he  had,  and  saw  no 
career  so  attractive  as  that  of  being  at  his  right 
hand,  and,  if  need  were,  of  falling  by  his  side  in 
the  Armageddon  to  come.  For  Charles  believed, 
as  the  Duke  certainly  did,  that  the  struggle  for 
Reform  meant  death  to  the  old  order  in  Eng- 
land, and  that  the  aristocracy  must  die  in  their 
ranks,  even  as  the  French  nobility  had  done  in 
the  Terror. 

But  there  was  another  side  to  Charles.  He 
was  a  morbid  man,  a  sensitive  man,  but  a  just  one. 
He  could  not  deny  to  himself  that  he  had  desired 
this  friendship,  and  had  done  his  best  to  procure  it 
—  for  his  own  ends.  He  had  hoped  that  Georg- 
iana  would  attract  the  Duke,  had  invited  it.  Now 
that  it  was  done,  how  could  he,  in  common  justice, 
blame  her  or  her  lover?  He  knew  that  he  could 
not.  Lover  as  he  was,  he  must  go  on  loving,  and 
see  his  beloved  give  herself  to  his  patron.  He 
could  be  nothing  but  agonized  —  but  he  could  not 
cease  loving  either  of  the  guilty  ones. 

For  guilty  they  must  be.  For  what  other  con- 
ceivable reason  had  she  separated  herself?  For 
what  other  reason  had  they  gone  into  Wake 
House?  There  could  be  none.  He  had  been 
betrayed  by  the  two  persons  whom  he  loved  best 


316  MRS.  LANCELOT 

in  the  world  —  and  yet  he  went  on  loving  them 
both.  Was  ever  such  a  position  held  by  a  man 
of  honor  before? 

He  was  a  man  of  honor.  He  would  have 
died  sooner  than  injure  his  wife,  and  would  spend 
his  last  ounce  of  blood  in  the  Duke's  service. 
Really,  though  he  was  in  torment,  he  admitted  the 
Duke's  right  —  as  that  of  a  Lord  of  the  Earth,  as 
that  of  a  being  superior  to  the  ties  and  liens  of 
human  kind  —  to  take  what  naturally  fell  to  him. 
Had  it  been  his  own  right  hand,  he  would  have 
given  it.  It  was  his  heart  which  his  master  now 
required  —  and  he  must  have  it.  A  loyaller  soul 
than  Lancelot's  did  not  exist  in  this  world. 

He  viewed  his  own  act  now  —  not  as  incon- 
ceivable folly,  not  as  a  thing  to  be  ashamed  of  — 
as  a  sacrifice  to  this  loyal  admiration  for  a  great 
man.  He  had  offered  up  his  ewe  lamb  to  his 
master's  needs  —  and  that  his  master  had  bene- 
fited by  it  was  a  kind  of  consolation.  So  it  might 
console  a  victim,  like  Iphigenia,  that  by  her  blood 
a  fate  was  averted,  and  in  her  dying  eyes  you 
might  have  seen  a  faint  spark  of  thanksgiving. 

The  Duke  came  into  the  room  in  his  usual 
brisk  and  cool  manner.  "  Georgie  's  overdone," 
he  said.  "  I  found  her  in  the  park.  There  's 
nothing  much  amiss;  but  I  have  persuaded  her  to 
lie  down.  You  'd  better  go  up  to  her  presently 


LOCAL  REMEDY  317 

—  but  don't  ask  questions.  Don't  bother  her. 
She  's  been  strained,  I  think,  with  all  this  fuss." 

Charles  had  started  up.  "  If  you  will  excuse 
me,  I  '11  go  to  her  now." 

"  As  you  please.  She  '11  hardly  have  had  time 
to  compose  herself.  But  as  you  please." 

Charles  bent  again  to  his  work.  "  I  have  put 
aside  these  letters  for  you  to  see.  There  seems 
some'  doubt  as  to  whether  we  can  count  upon 
Lords  Cantacute  and  Milsom.  Milsom  wishes  to 
make  his  undertaking  conditional  —  as  you  '11 
see." 

"  D — n  him,  does  he  though?  "  said  the  Duke, 
and  sat  to  his  letters. 

He  read,  pished,  pshawed,  dictated  half-a- 
dozen  short  replies  to  half-a-dozen  inordinately 
long  communications,  then  said,  "  Charles,  go  up 
to  her.  Treat  her  kindly  —  but  I  've  no  busi- 
ness to  say  that.  You  always  do.  I  need  n't 
tell  you  what  I  think  of  her."  He  looked  up  sud- 
denly. "  God  bless  you,  Charles,"  and  held  out 
his  hand. 

Charles  Lancelot  took  a  short  breath  —  strug- 
gled as  if  on  the  point  of  speaking,  but  resigned 
the  effort.  He  grasped  the  Duke's  hand  and  left 
the  room. 

He  sped  upstairs  and  knocked  at  his  wife's 
door.  The  blinds  were  down,  but  he  made  out 


318  MRS.  LANCELOT 

her  slim  figure  crouched  on  the  bed.  He  came 
to  her  on  tiptoe,  stooped  over  her,  and  touched 
her  hair  with  his  hand.  "  My  love,  I  am  dis- 
tressed— "  he  began,  but  she  stopped  him. 

"  Don't  be  unhappy,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  be 
better  directly.  I  have  a  bad  headache.  The  sun 
was  very  hot  this  morning.  I  think  it  struck  me. 
The  Duke  was  very  kind."  Then  she  put  out  her 
hand,  "  And  so  are  you.  You  always  are." 
That  was  literally  what  the  Duke  had  said.  It 
stabbed  him. 

But  he  took  and  held  her  hand;  he  could 
hardly  see  her  through  his  misty  eyes.  All  his 
soul  strained  towards  her.  Then  suddenly  he 
knelt  by  the  bed  and  kissed  her  hand.  "  I  am 
ever  yours,  my  dearest  —  ever,  ever  yours."  She 
heard  him,  she  understood  him  in  part,  but  his 
words  had  no  conviction  for  her. 

"  Oh,  you  are  very  good  to  me !  "  she  said. 
"  Perhaps  I  can  go  to  sleep.  I  don't  know. 
You  won't  be  surprised  if  I  don't  come  down  to 
luncheon,  will  you?  Make  my  apologies,  and  tell 
them  I  don't  want  anything." 

Charles  was  now  on  his  feet.  His  emotions 
were  under  cover  again.  "  Certainly,  my  love. 
I  '11  call  again  later  in  the  day.  I  do  trust  that 
you  will  sleep." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  can.  I  hope  I  can."  She 
looked  up  at  him.  "  Thank  you  for  coming  to 


LOCAL  REMEDY  319 

me,"  she  said,  and  nearly  undid  him.  He 
choked  his  sob  —  strangled  it  at  birth,  then 
stooped  over  and  kissed  her  forehead.  She  knew 
a  sudden  change  of  mood,  or  read  in  him  some- 
thing which  she  had  never  read  before.  She 
looked  up  sideways  at  him,  then  turned  about  and 
put  her  arm  round  his  neck.  She  felt  him  shiver. 
For  a  moment  she  clung  to  him  like  a  frightened 
child.  If  he  had  stayed  with  her  all  might  yet 
have  been  well  with  him ;  but  the  poor  fool  did  not 
know  that.  His  habit  of  repressing  himself  crept 
over  him  again.  "  I  pray  that  you  may  sleep," 
was  what  he  said,  and  then  he  left  her. 

When  he  was  gone  she  lay  wide  awake  in  a 
reverie  that  was  not  disagreeable,  because  it  was 
perfectly  vague.  A  faint  aroma  of  tenderness 
seemed  to  float  over  her.  Gervase  and  his  wild 
love-making  were  far  from  her.  She  seemed 
hardly  to  miss  him.  Charles  had  loved  her  — 
Charles  had  been  kind  to  her  again!  Perhaps 
she  had  just  begun  to  learn  Charles  —  all  the  im- 
plications of  his  severe  conduct  were  to  be  dis- 
covered. Could  that  be  true?  Did  Charles  love 
her? 

It  was  very  odd  that  Gervase  was  so  little  in 
her  thoughts.  She  whipped  her  mind  back  to  the 
park  —  to  the  trees  and  the  burnt  white  acres  of 
grass,  to  the  buzzing  of  insects  and  the  puffs  of 


320  MRS.  LANCELOT 

hot  wind.  Then  she  saw  him  again  with  his 
fierce  inspired  face — his  tragic  mask  and  gray 
eyes  which  seemed  to  flame.  She  felt  his  arms, 
his  breath,  his  kisses.  Her  brain  swam,  the  room 
spun  round.  At  the  back  of  her  mind  she  heard, 
like  a  bell  on  a  rock  at  sea,  the  Everlasting  Nay. 
"  Lawlessness  is  not  for  thee  —  no  more  of  that. 
Seek  thy  happiness  in  the  Mean.  Husband  and 
child,  husband  and  child.  Seek  them,  seek  them, 
seek  them." 

As  one  navigating  swift  rivers  of  water  between 
shoals,  she  listened  to  that  warning  bell,  and  took 
comfort  in  it.  Charles  gained.  With  the  strong 
sounds  in  her  ear  she  fell  asleep. 

Downstairs  Charles  was  with  the  Duke.  Their 
positions  were  strangely  reversed.  Charles,  who 
should  have  been  accuser,  was  accusing  himself. 
The  Duke,  who  should  have  been  defendant,  was 
judge  and  jury.  The  Duke  sat  upright  at  the 
table,  drumming  his  fingers  lightly.  Charles, 
with  bent  head  and  hands  locked  closely  behind 
him,  walked  the  floor. 

He  had  begun  by  formal  excuses  of  his  imperti- 
nence. "  I  feel  that  I  abuse  your  friendship,  if  I 
may  call  it  that,  by  intruding  my  personal  affairs 
upon  you.  Believe  me,  nothing  but  their  pressure 
could  persuade  me  — " 

"  Go   on,    Charles."     That,   according  to  the 


LOCAL  REMEDY  321 

Duke,  should  be  sufficient  encouragement  to  any 
man  born.  But  it  was  not  enough  for  Charles. 

"  It  is  very  difficult,  you  know.  I  may  seem 
to  be  criticizing  one  whom  it  would  be  persump- 
tuous  in  me  — " 

"  Do  you  mean  me,  pray?  My  dear  friend, 
you  may  say  what  you  please  of  me.  But  I 
thought  you  were  going  to  talk  about  your 
wife." 

"  I  confess  to  that.  I  am  disturbed  about  her, 
and  have  been  for  some  time.  Probably  you 
know  that  I  have  lost  her  confidence  —  I  don't 
know  whether  she  may  have  told  you  — " 

The  Duke  blinked.  "  She  never  speaks  of  you 
to  me;  but  I  have  eyes  in  my  head." 

"  She  has  been  unlike  herself  of  late.  She  has 
had  alternating  moods,  now  up,  now  down.  But 
I  have  not  felt  able  to  invite  that  which  there  has 
been  no  disposition  to  concede.  I  am  venturing 
to  appeal,  therefore,  to  you.  It  is  humiliating, 
you  must  allow;  but  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  be 
humiliated  — " 

"Pish!"  said  the  Duke.  "That's  a  d— d 
foolish  sort  of  feeling  for  any  man  to  have.  Let 
me  get  to  the  bottom  of  this.  You  think  that 
Georgte  's  in  love  with  me,  I  take  it.  Well,  I  can 
settle  that  for  you  in  two  words.  She  is  not.  I 
know  that  by  the  best  evidence  in  the  world." 

Charles  dropped  his  lower  jaw,  and  seemed  un- 


322  MRS.  LANCELOT 

able  to  pick  it  up  again.  He  looked  grotesquely 
helpless. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  this,  my  friend,"  the  Duke 
went  on  —  and  in  such  a  way  that  he  seemed  to  be 
accusing  his  accuser  when  he  ought  to  have  been 
defending  himself.  "  I  have  been  head  over  heels 
in  love  with  her  ever  since  I  saw  her.  Make  no 
mistake  about  that.  I  am  still,  and  expect  I  al- 
ways shall  be.  She  's  very  fond  of  me  —  she  ad- 
mits that;  but  for  all  the  good  she  can  do  to  my 
complaint  I  might  be  her  grandfather.  Now, 
I  '11  tell  you  this.  I  have  made  love  to  her  in  my 
day,  as  I  have  to  other  women.  But  she  's  not 
like  other  women.  She  put  me  in  my  place.  She 
would  n't  have  anything  to  say  to  me.  She  did  it, 
upon  my  soul,  in  the  neatest  way  I  ever  heard  tell 
of.  It  was  a  great  scene.  Without  a  word  of 
indignation,  without  a  lot  of  talk  about  virtue 
(which  they  never  mean),  without  a  tear,  or  a 
flashing  eye,  or  a  colored  cheek,  she  did  it.  And 
I  let  her  be.  She  beat  me  hollow.  And  the  mo- 
ment she  'd  done  it  she  jumped  up  with  her  arms 
about  my  neck  and  gave  me  a  kiss.  God  bless 
her;  she  's  all  gold.  And  I  Ve  never  made  love 
to  her  from  that  day  to  this.  And  that  was  two 
years  ago.  Now,  I  '11  tell  you  another  thing,  my 
young  friend." 

He  had  just  lifted  his  admonishing  forefinger, 
when  Charles  lifted  his  bruised  head. 


LOCAL  REMEDY  323 

"  One  moment,  please.  You  have  told  me 
what  I  had  imagined.  I  have  never  doubted  my 
wife's  honor.  You  have  confirmed  my  beliefs  — 
and  I  am  deeply  obliged  to  you.  But  I  must 
make  my  confession.  I  earnestly  desired  her  ac- 
quaintance with  you  —  I  sought  to  begin  it,  I 
cherished  its  beginnings  —  for  my  own  advantage. 
I  admonished  her  —  God  forgive  me  —  to  make 
the  most  of  it.  I  — " 

"  You  might  have  spared  yourself  the  trouble, 
my  dear  Charles,"  said  the  Duke.  "  She  had  me 
in  a  net  the  very  first  time  I  saw  her  —  the  little 
witch-wife  that  she  is.  So  you  made  her  a  lure? 
To  catch  me?  My  dear  Charles,  I  'm  very  glad 
you  succeeded.  I  'm  very  much  obliged  to  you. 
She  's  been  an  enormous  happiness  to  me  —  and 
you  're  the  best  aide  I  ever  had.  I  '11  add  this. 
If  you  made  her  a  friend  of  me  —  she  made  me  a 
friend  of  yours.  I  ask  no  better." 

Charles  was  much  moved.  "  I  cannot  suffi- 
ciently thank  you,  Duke." 

"  Don't  thank  me,  my  friend,"  he  was  told. 
"  You  Ve  only  yourself  to  thank.  Do  you  take 
me  for  a  fool?  Do  you  suppose  that  I  should 
have  employed  you  because  I  loved  your  wife? 
You  never  made  a  greater  mistake  than  that  —  if 
so  it  be.  Why,  man,  do  me  justice  for  common 
sense.  I  Ve  got  the  business  of  this  d — d 
blundering  old  country  to  do.  I  can't  afford  jobs 


324  MRS.  LANCELOT 

on  a  pretty  woman's  account.  No,  no.  Leave 
all  that  to  the  Duke  of  York.  You  might  as  well 
ask  me  to  say  that  you  threw  your  wife  at  my 
head  for  the  sake  of  £1200  a  year." 

"  As  God  lives,"  said  Charles,  "  that  is  untrue. 
It  has  been  the  aim  of  my  life  to  serve  under 
you." 

"  I  think  that  very  true.  You  're  a  gentleman, 
Charles,  though  you  're  not  much  of  a  hand  with 
women.  Now  let  me  tell  you  something.  If  you 
don't  make  love  to  your  wife,  somebody  else  will, 
so  sure  as  you  were  born.  That 's  common  rea- 
son. But  I  '11  add  to  that,  that  it  won't  be  me. 
No,  no.  She  won't  have  me."  He  rose.  "  I 
tell  you  that  I  'm  in  love  with  her.  She  's  an 
angel.  By  nature  she  's  as  bright  as  the  sun  on 
a  fine  May  morning;  and  she  's  as  good  for  a  man 
as  that,  every  bit.  She  's  too  good  for  me,  I 
know  —  and  she  's  probably  too  good  for  you. 
But  she  '11  follow  the  law,  you  '11  find.  You  trust 
her  —  and  so  do  I.  But  it 's  common  justice  that 
we  should  make  her  happy  between  us  —  the 
barest  justice.  We  owe  her  that.  Damme,  sir, 
if  two  men  can't  make  a  woman  happy  between 
'em,  they  ought  to  be  sent  to  jail !  " 

Charles  turned  away  his  face;  but  the  Duke 
did  not  misinterpret  the  action.  He  went  on. 

"  She  's  young,  and  full  of  health,  and  great- 
spirited,  and  full  of  pretty  thoughts  and  fancies 


LOCAL  REMEDY  325 

which  we  can  only  guess  at  —  grope  after.  Give 
her  her  fling,  my  dear  fellow.  She  '11  come  back. 
Trust  her,  enjoy  the  sight  of  her,  laugh  with  her, 

—  revel  in  her  grace.     By  God,  I  Ve  had  to  teach 
myself   that.     And   I've   done   it!     I   wish   her 
happy  —  and  happy  she  shall  be,  for  me,  though 
she  run  away  with  the   first  tinker's  brat  who 
makes  eyes  at  her.     Bless  you,  she  won't  do  it. 
She  '11  think  of  it  —  put  her  pretty  head  sideways 

—  show   the   mischief   spark   in    her    eye  —  but 
she  '11  stick  to  you  and  the  law.     You  trust  her. 
And  for  God's  sake,  no  sour  looks.     Be  ready  for 
her  when  she  comes.     Damn  it,   Charles,  she 's 
worth  it.     I  can  do  it  —  so  can  you.     Let 's  be 
decent  men   about   all  this.     I  '11   tell  you   this. 
There  could  be  no  better  news  for  me  than  that 
you  and  she  were  together  again  — " 

He  was  a  blunt  man,  this  Duke  of  Devizes, 
and  captain  of  old  England  (an  England  that  died 
with  him).  He  went  further  than  I  do  in  his 
particulars.  But  Charles  wrung  his  offered  hand 

—  and  then,  by  some  innate   feeling  of  respect 
for  what  was  respectable  —  kissed  it.     The  Duke 
disliked  that. 

"  Now  let 's  get  to  work  with  these  damned 
letters,"  he  said.  He  always  swore  when  he  was 
moved  —  like  a  partridge  on  the  defense,  kicking 
up  dust. 


BOOK  III 
LOVE  IN  A  MIST 


THE   DUKE   AT   THE    HELM 

WHEN  Georgiana  returned  to  town,  whither 
she  went  directly  from  the  B s',  she 

found  a  canto  of  apologetics  from  Gervase,  and 
within  two  hours  of  her  arrival  had  him  weeping 
on  his  knees,  with  his  face  upon  hers.  This 
young  man  was  always  in  extremis  —  extreme  of 
daring,  extreme  of  self-humiliation,  extreme  of 
bliss  or  extreme  of  misery:  you  could  never  get 
him  to  perch  amidships.  He  did  not  ask  her  for 
forgiveness,  he  extenuated  nothing,  he  held  to  all 
that  he  had  said  as  the  only  possible  course  for 
true  lovers;  but  he  was  aghast  at  his  own  induracy 
and  at  the  accursed  fate  which  drove  him  to  cause 
her  suffering  —  and  while  he  bewailed  all  this, 
he  foresaw  that  it  was  to  continue.  That  was  why 
he  wept.  "  Oh,  my  Saint,  my  Saint,"  he  mur- 
mured between  his  sobs,  "  Oh,  my  Rose  of  Dawn ! 
and  this  misery  must  go  on.  There  's  no  remedy 
—  we  are  stricken  —  wounded,  we  run  about 
showing  our  wounds.  We  ask  for  pity,  and  get 

329 


330  MRS.  LANCELOT 

cold  looks.  We  say  to  ourselves,  Can  it  be  that 
men,  that  women,  fed  on  the  same  milk,  crowned 
with  the  same  hope,  conscious  of  the  same  destiny, 
can  see  us  bleed  and  have  no  compassion?  Alas, 
my  beloved  —  and  we  are  not  allowed  to  die !  " 
So  he  ran  on,  blowing  into  flame  his  own  fire,  and 
she  sat  with  her  hand  in  his  hair,  looking  down 
upon  him  with  divine  gentleness,  and  a  swelling 
heart,  in  the  midst  of  which  was  a  pain  which 
seemed  vocal,  seemed  to  wail. 

Her  eyes  were  wide  and  had  no  tears.  The 
case  was  beyond  her  tears;  for  she  knew  that 
he  was  right  and  that  she  could  not  help  him. 
Nothing  could  be  more  certain  to  her  than  that 
she  adored  this  fierce,  hot-headed  young  man. 
She  gloried  in  his  genius,  she  took  more  pride 
in  his  discerning  devotion  than  in  all  the  tribute 
of  the  Duke's,  in  all  the  heady  incense  which 
floated  up  to  her  from  that  greatness  on  its  knees. 
For  she  was  able  to  discriminate.  She  knew  very 
well  that  the  Duke's  greatness  was  not  of  the 
mind,  and  that  the  Duke's  love  for  her  did  not 
proceed  from  the  mind,  was  not  of  the  soul  at 
all.  Gervase  loved  her  body,  she  saw,  because  it 
informed  her  soul;  Gervase  desired  it  so  ardently 
because  by  it  alone  he  could  unite  his  soul  with 
hers.  She  and  he  were  severed  hemispheres. 
Yes,  he  was  fatally  right.  There  was  no  pos- 
sible happiness  —  now  —  for  them  short  of  union. 


THE  DUKE  AT  THE  HELM      33! 

Hard-eyed,  envisaging  the  dreary  scene  of  their 
torment,  she  sat  and  watched  him. 

But  Gervase  must  be  nourished,  and  hope  was 
his  food.  If  she  could  give  him  none,  he  must 
forage  for  himself;  and  even  as  he  lay  his  mind 
ranged  abroad,  casting  about  for  shreds  of  com- 
fort. Of  the  suddenest  he  lifted  his  head  and 
gazing,  smiling  into  her  woebegone  face,  he  put 
his  hands  upon  her  shoulders.  "  You  and  I,  my 
saint,  have  at  least  this  certainty,  that  we  cannot 
face,  or  think  of,  separation.  Tortured  we  must 
be,  but  together.  Is  it  not  so?  " 

She  could  not  speak,  or  take  her  eyes  from 
him;  she  nodded  her  head.  He  embroidered  the 
theme.  He  drank  thirstily  the  slightest  motion 
of  her  head.  "  They  can  never  keep  us  apart. 
I  don't  know  that  they  will  try.  That  is  hope- 
less." 

She  shook  her  head,  still  looking  at  him.  "  No, 
no,  not  now.  I  should  die.  You  are  all  to  me." 
He  adored  her  motions;  his  pity  for  her  dreari- 
ness was  a  sort  of  rapture.  Gazing  each  at  the 
other,  speechless,  they  thrilled  as  they  neared; 
then  their  lips  met  and  held  together  —  and  then 
the  ice  about  her  heart  broke  up,  and  she  fell  aban- 
doned into  his  arms  and  sobbed  her  heart  out. 
Thus  she  awoke  his  manhood;  he  became  the  calm 
marshal  of  events,  once  more  the  arbiter  of  des- 
tiny. He  sought  not  the  impossible,  resumed  his 


332  MRS.  LANCELOT 

old  place  of  her  sweet  familiar,  the  one  being  on 
earth  with  whom  she  could  be  absolutely  herself; 
and  every  sign  that  she  gave  him  of  her  renewing 
ease  was  the  call  for  one  assurance  the  more  that 
she  might  resume  it.  Their  leave-taking  was  pro- 
longed and  tender.  He  claimed  nothing  that  she 
could  not  give  him,  and  clasping  her  to  his  heart 
proclaimed  himself  aloud  the  blessed  of  God.  "  I 
have  your  heart,  I  have  your  heart  and  soul! 
What  is  it  to  me  that  your  divine  body  is  with- 
held for  a  season?  Let  Nature  have  her  mighty 
way  with  us  two.  Good-night,  my  sweet  Queen, 
I  go  to  write  of  you  as  a  poet  should."  And  so 
he  left  her  —  and  so  for  many  days,  on  every 
one  of  which  they  held  this  kind  of  intercourse, 
he  met  and  parted  from  her.  For  Georgiana  he 
was  at  his  best  in  these  chastened  and  serene 
moods  wherein  all  that  was  fine  in  him,  his  im- 
aginative chivalry,  his  humor,  his  unfailing  tact 
and  resource,  had  full  scope.  Tragic,  fiercely  ani- 
mal, cold  by  reason  of  some  secret  wound,  bitter, 
scoffing,  arrogant,  intolerant  —  she  loved  him  in 
every  guise,  but  never  so  much  as  when  she  could 
read  the  justification  of  her  entire  confidence  in 
his  friendly  and  affectionate  eyes.  He  was  writ- 
ing of  her  freely,  as  he  told  her,  at  this  time  — 
and  all  was  well  with  him  for  the  moment.  All 
went  indifferent  well,  in  fact,  throughout  the 
winter.  There  were  few  resumptions  of  that 


THE  DUKE  AT  THE  HELM      333 

clamative,  devouring  mood  of  his,  in  which  it 
seemed  certain  that  he  must  eat  her  up  —  and 
such  as  there  were,  were  momentary.  No;  he 
was  writing,  and  all  was  well. 

If  all  was  well  with  him,  it  was  well  with  her, 
and  Charles  got  the  benefit  of  that.  Since  her 
return  to  London  she  had  been  able  to  be  charm- 
ing to  Charles.  And  he  too,  though  harassed  by 
his  work,  was  in  a  good  mood.  Knowing  nothing 
of  Gervase,  having  no  eyes  for  him,  he  had  been 
much  comforted  -by  the  Duke's  frankness.  He 
was  still  jealous  whenever  he  saw  the  pair  to- 
gether; but  his  imagination  was  quieted.  He  did 
not  leave  the  house  with  dreadful  suspicion;  he 
did  not  return  to  it  with  a  sinking  heart.  If  he 
had  had  time  to  envisage  deliberately  the  state 
of  his  own  case  he  would  have  found  it  pretty 
desperate.  Georgiana  was  too  friendly  by  half 
—  too  cool  in  her  friendliness.  He  had  very 
little  knowledge  of  women,  but  enough  to  see  that 
if  a  woman  can  afford  to  be  friendly  with  you  it 
is  because  she  knows  that  you  can't  expect  any- 
thing else  of  her.  But  he  was  too  busy  to  think 
of  all  this  —  and  besides  that,  he  was  of  a  cold 
temperament  and  did  not  burn  for  the  renewal  of 
his  rights.  So  long  as  his  sense  of  property  was 
not  outraged  by  evidence,  he  did  not  need  imme- 
diate possession. 

And  really  he  was  very  busy.     Parliament  had 


334  MRS.  LANCELOT 

resumed  in  November,  had  adjourned  for  a  few 
days  at  Christmas,  had  met  again  early  in  the  New 
Year,  and  was  hatching  a  yeasty  kind  of  an  egg, 
it  seemed,  which  (if  it  should  burst  of  its  ferment) 
might  well  blow  the  Duke  and  his  friends  out  of 
office.  Which,  in  fact,  it  did  in  February.  Beaten 
over  and  over  again  in  the  Commons,  the  night 
came  when  he  had  to  walk  out  of  his  own  house 
in  the  face  of  certain  defeat.  That  was  what  he 
did,  and  faced  a  Westminster  Yard  hoarse  with 
injuries,  filled  with  white  and  mocking  faces, 
bristling  with  uplifted  threatening  fists.  Stones 
were  flying  too,  and  the  soldiery  sent  for.  With 
Charles  at  his  side,  and  a  few  more  of  his  friends, 
the  little  great  man  stood  coolly  watching  the 
stormy  human  sea. 

He  did  not  move  a  muscle  of  his  face.  His 
eyes  were  bright  and  unblinking.  "  By  Gad,  they 
don't  love  us  just  now.  Time  we  were  out  of 
this,"  was  what  he  said;  and  then,  folding  his 
cloak  about  him,  he  stepped  coolly  off  the  steps 
and  made  a  way  for  himself.  It  was  exactly  as  if 
a  man  dropped  off  a  jetty  into  a  swirling  flood 
of  water,  to  a  certain  death.  Charles  was  behind 
him,  undisguisedly  anxious,  not  of  the  same  heroic 
breed.  It  was  not  so  much  that  he  feared  death, 
as  that  he  cowered  before  hatred.  Oddly 
enough,  though  he  was  the  last  man  in  the  world 


THE  DUKE  AT  THE  HELM      3351 

to  court  popularity,  that  was  in  fact  the  very  breath 
of  his  nostrils.  To  realize,  as  now  he  must,  the 
loathing  in  which  his  king  of  men  was  held  was 
terrible  to  him.  "Down  with  the  b — y  tyrant! 
Down  with  Privilege !  To  Hell  with  the  Duke !  " 
Charles  shuddered  to  hear.  If  he  had  had  his 
wits  about  him,  he  would  have  taken  comfort 
from  the  evident  truth  that  fear  was  mingled  with 
their  hate.  They  saw  that  the  man  was  beaten, 
but  dreaded  to  gloat  over  that  lest  he  should 
rise  again  on  some  third  day.  And  positively, 
though  they  hovered  about  him,  grinning  their 
rage  and  desire,  not  a  finger  was  laid  upon  him. 
They  cursed  him,  they  called  for  three  groans, 
and  one  groan  more;  they  reviled  him  with  foul 
language  and  fouler  implication.  "  Go  to  your 
women,  you  adulterer!"  Charles  heard  with  a 
mortal  chill  at  the  heart;  and,  "  Into  your  seraglio, 
old  Turk."  The  Duke  was  fabled  to  be  of  Turk- 
ish instincts  —  as  indeed  he  was. 

The  little  great  man  took  it  very  coolly,  and 
reached  Wake  House  in  capital  spirits.  "  Well, 
Charles,  that 's  all  over.  I  must  go  to  Windsor 
to-morrow  or  Friday.  Plague  take  the  rascal 
that  he  keeps  his  bed  down  there.  Why  the  deuce 
can't  he  lie-in  in  town,  like  a  gentleman?  Now 
we  must  go  and  tell  Georgie  the  news.  We  '11 
give  her  a  holiday  after  this,  Charles  —  by  Gad 


336  MRS.  LANCELOT 

we  will.  She  's  been  out  of  sorts  this  long  while." 
Then  they  went  into  the  house,  and  sought  Georgi- 
ana  in  her  drawing-room. 

She  was  out,  however,  at  a  party,  and  came  in 
some  half  an  hour  later,  fully  acquainted  with  the 
news.  She  came  in,  with  high  color  and  bright 
eyes,  and  went  straight  up  to  the  Duke.  "  Is  all 
well?  You  are  not  hurt?  Either  of  you?" 
This  was  well  meant,  but  rather  unfortunate.  The 
fact  was  she  had  not  identified  Charles  with  the 
disaster.  The  poor  wretch  felt  that. 

The  Duke  took  her  hands  and  gave  her  a 
kiss  on  the  forehead.  "  All  well,  Georgie.  No 
bones  broken  —  and  no  hearts,  I  hope.  Charles 
was  with  me." 

She  turned  immediately  to  her  husband. 
"Wasn't  it  very  alarming?" 

He  did  his  best.  "  No,  my  dear,  no.  The 
Duke  was  their  master.  It  was  extraordinary  and 
very  fine.  Nobody  knew  me,  I  fancy." 

She  returned  to  the  Duke.  "  Lord  Alvanley 
came  in  and  told  me  about  it.  I  tried  to  get 
away,  but  they  assured  me  that  it  was  n't  safe. 
Luckily  I  had  an  escort." 

The  Duke  blinked;  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
twitched.  He  knew  who  this  escort  was  — 
Charles  neither  knew  nor  cared. 

They  discussed  the  offshoots  of  the  affair  in 
the  leisurely,  detached  manner  of  those  who  have 


THE  DUKE  AT  THE  HELM      337 

their  conduct  in  their  own  hands.  The  popular 
tumult  was  taken  as  a  factor  of  the  problem,  but 
almost  as  a  negligible  one.  The  Duke  had  never 
got  out  of  the  way  of  considering  men  as  so  much 
stuff,  to  use  or  discard  as  the  moment  chose.  To 
him  the  country  meant  the  King,  and  government 
the  King's  pleasure  or  convenience.  For  one  or 
both  of  these  you  might  have  to  use  the  mob, 
either  by  drilling  them  in  battalions  or  scattering 
them  with  the  musketry  of  already  formed  bat- 
talions: beyond  that  he  was  unable  to  consider 
them  seriously.  They  were  ignorant,  they  were 
blackguardly,  they  were  at  the  mercy  of  dema- 
gogues whom  he  detested.  He  could  not  hate 
the  mob,  and  scoffed  at  fear  of  it.  Charles  re- 
garded the  populace  rather  more  closely.  He 
considered  it  as  the  material  of  votes;  and  again 
he  had  the  incurable  belief  of  an  official  that  it  was 
a  flock  for  his  shepherding.  Views,  in  a  mob, 
were  not  to  be  thought  of.  His  attitude  was  that 
of  a  clergyman  who  rises  from  his  after-dinner 
port  to  minister  at  evening  prayer,  and  to  preach 
the  virtues  of  strict  temperance.  In  the  present 
conjuncture,  however,  it  was  clear  to  both  these 
politicians  that  resignation  must  follow.  The  Duke 
went  by  the  temper  of  the  House,  meaning  that  of 
the  Lords,  Charles  by  the  temper  of  the  people  as 
inflamed  by  the  House  of  Commons.  But 
Charles,  the  faithful  shepherd,  was  troubled  about 


338  MRS.  LANCELOT 

the  future,  while  the  Duke  looked  only  to  the  holi- 
day ahead. 

He  broached  it  to  his  Egeria.  "  Italy,  my 
dear,  is  the  end  of  this.  I  think  we  '11  give  our- 
selves a  trip.  What  do  you  say  to  Florence, 
Rome,  back  to  Venice  —  across  the  Alps  to  Basle; 
home  by  the  Rhine?  Now  don't  you  think  that 
worth  a  little  mob-law?  " 

He  was  somewhat  chilled  to  observe  the  frank 
dismay  with  which  she  received  it.  She  stared, 
turned  pale,  faltered  at  the  lips. 

"  Oh !  "  she  said,  "  oh,  I  had  no  idea.  Really,  I 
don't  know  whether  —  But  if  you  would  like  it,  of 
course  — "  For  the  moment  she  had  not  been 
able  to  command  herself,  and  when  she  could  do 
it,  and  even  feign  enthusiasm  jumping  to  meet 
his,  it  was  too  late.  He  had  seen  everything  in 
a  moment.  Poor  girl!  she  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  separation  from  her  poet.  The  Duke 
was  touched.  It  was  pathetic  —  her  dismay;  but 
the  summoning  of  her  thin  garrison  at  his  com- 
mand—  to  stand  at  attention,  at  the  salute,  late, 
faltering,  shaking  at  the  knees  —  that  was  a  heart- 
rending spectacle. 

He  felt  magnanimous,  he  beamed  at  her. 
"  Yes,  Georgie,  we  '11  go,"  he  said.  "  We  '11  make 
up  a  party  of  us.  There  '11  be  you,  and  me,  and 
Charles.  And  how  would  it  be  to  take  Caroline 
Gunner  —  and  your  poet,  eh  ?  " 


THE  DUKE  AT  THE  HELM      339 

He  saw  the  flood  of  color,  he  saw  her  eyes 
flutter  and  dilate.  He  saw  her  fight  for  breath, 
watching  her  bosom.  He  determined  that  it 
should  be. 

Charles  inquired.  "  Who  is  your  poet,  my 
dear?  Do  I  know  him?"  He  knew  him,  of 
course,  perfectly  well  —  but  Charles  was  Charles. 

She  was  able  to  say,  "  Oh,  yes,  quite  well.  He 
calls  Mr.  Poore  my  poet.  But  I  don't  know 
whether  Mr.  Poore  could  —  leave  his  work." 

"  He  '11  take  it  with  him,"  said  the  Duke  with 
a  chuckle.  "  Reams  of  it." 

Charles  affected  interest.  "  Does  Mr.  Poore 
follow  the  profession  of  poet?  And  does  that 
advantage  him  in  foreign  travel?  " 

"  It 's  his  raw  material,"  said  the  Duke. 
"  '  Childe  Harold '  should  have  taught  you  that 
much." 

Charles  objected.  "  Lord  Byron  was  a  man  of 
means  and  abundant  leisure,  Duke.  This  gentle- 
man may  be  both,  no  doubt,  but  in  that  case, 
probably,  I  should  have  heard  of  him." 

"  Oh,  you  '11  hear  of  him  one  of  these  days," 
said  the  Duke.  "  Won't  he,  Georgie?  " 

Georgiana  could  now  command  herself.  "  I 
certainly  think  so  myself.  Mr.  Poore  has  genius. 
It  would  be  a  great  chance  for  him." 

"  Then  by  Gad  he  shall  have  his  chance,"  said 
the  Duke.  "  He  shall  come  as  my  guest." 


340  MRS.  LANCELOT 

Gcorglana  turned  away,  and  it  was  Charles 
who  praised  his  Grace's  generosity;  but  she  felt  it 
deeply,  and  knew  that  she  would  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  repaying  it  as  he  would  wish  to  be  re- 
paid. She  had  by  this  time  found  out  in  what 
queer  channels  his  savor  of  her  ran.  But  for  the 
present  she  put  out  of  mind  her  duties  of  debtor 
to  creditor  —  all  her  thoughts  hummed  and  sang 
of  the  joy  of  telling  her  lover  what  was  in  store 
for  them  both.  Italy  and  Gervase!  Those  two 
who  should  be  inseparables,  never  yet  united.  And 
she  would  see  Italy  dawn  in  Gervase's  eyes,  and 
catch  the  first  sound  of  his  singing,  when  he,  like 
a  young  Memnon,  shrilled  with  that  morning 
glory!  And  then  she  caught  a  sight  of  herself  by 
prevision,  hand  in  hand  with  him,  straying  through 
the  breaking  landscape,  spying  for  the  first  flow- 
ers, kissing  the  golden  buds.  And  then  she  felt 
herself  in  his  eager  arms,  and  grew  hot,  and  had 
the  mist  upon  her  eyes.  With  those  misty,  happy 
eyes  she  thanked  her  great  friend,  urging  her 
face  towards  him  as  she  wished  him  good-night; 
"Oh,  you  are  kind  to  me,"  she  whispered;  and 
he  smiled  keenly  at  her,  and  would  have  kissed 
her,  but  that  Charles  was  there.  "  Good-night,  my 
dear  —  I'll  see  you  happy  yet,"  contented  him. 
He  could  wait  for  his  payment  until  to-morrow  — 
his  payment,  such  as  it  was  I 


THE  DUKE  AT  THE  HELM   341 

It  ought  to  have  been  —  and  largely  was  — 
that  he  sent  her  dancing  to  bed  —  dancing,  and 
singing  messages  to  Gervase,  to  whom,  through 
walls,  over  roofs  anad  chimney-pots,  she  kissed 
her  hand  a  dozen  times  before  she  blew  out  her 
candle. 

In  the  morning,  having  paid  her  dues,  she  told 
him  what  was  in  store.  He  took  it  gravely,  al- 
most as  a  right;  but  he  held  her  long  and  closely 
in  his  arms. 


II 

ITALY  AND   THE   LOVERS 

A  DUKE  cannot  travel  simply,  if  he  would; 
and  our  duke  would  have  maintained  (and 
been  right  in  maintaining)  that,  traveling  as  he 
did,  he  used  to  the  utmost  the  simplicity  proper 
to  dukes.  A  traveling  carriage  with  four  horses, 
accordingly,  conveyed  the  party;  another,  with 
two  horses,  the  servants  —  Georgiana's  maid, 
Lady  Caroline's,  the  Duke's  body-servant,  courier 
and  lackey;  finally,  a  groom  on  horseback  had 
charge  of  two  led  animals  in  case  any  of  the  gen- 
tlemen should  wish  to  ride.  The  Duke  rode,  in 
fact,  for  his  allotted  number  of  hours  in  each  day; 
Charles  Lancelot  rode  for  hours  on  end;  Gervase 
never,  but  sat  with  Georgiana  in  the  .carriage,  or 
strode  by  wild  paths  alone,  taking  short  cuts  over 
mountain,  plain,  by  river  and  thicket  as  the  mood 
took  him.  Later  on  the  journey  he  used  to  be- 
guile his  mistress  into  companionship  on  these  ad- 
ventures ;  but  she  was  not  equipped  for  them,  nor 
prepared,  and  seldom  went  far.  So  now  the 
reader  has  material  for  picturing  the  dusty,  jolting 
apparatus  which  dragged  across  the  length  of 

342 


ITALY  AND  THE  LOVERS       343 

France,  clattering  and  sliding  through  the  cobbled 
streets  of  Meaux  and  Compiegne,  Nevers  and 
Avignon,  through  the  wooded  ways  of  Fontaine- 
bleau,  by  the  great  rivers,  the  airy  slopes,  the 
long  white  vistas  of  road,  into  the  drab  and  burnt 
hill  country  of  Province.  Throughout  the  jour- 
ney, and  so  onwards  into  Italy,  the  Duke  never 
varied  in  any  one  particular  his  habits  of  home. 
He  rose  at  seven  and  breakfasted  on  tea  and  toast. 
He  worked  with  Charles  at  the  papers  and  letters 
which  pursued  him  until  ten.  He  rode  till 
twelve,  sat  with  Georgiana  till  two,  lunched,  had 
his  nap,  worked  or  read  till  it  was  dark,  conversed 
at  large  with  his  friends,  dined  at  eight,  expected 
to  be  amused  until  ten  —  and  to  bed  on  the  stroke. 
The  retinue,  the  two  coaches,  the  guests,  the  inn- 
keepers and  their  hinds  were  all  subservient  to 
this  routine,  which  suited  him  and  was  strictly 
maintained. 

Georgiana  with  gentle  humor  did  her  full 
share  of  its  upkeep,  Lady  Caroline  saw  it  all  as  a 
matter  of  course:  a  healthy,  fresh-colored  young 
woman  with  straw-colored  hair  and  quantities  of 
it,  she  had  all  the  tact  with  which  her  caste  is 
born,  and  that  intense  instinct  for  smoothness  of 
life  which  is  its  most  distinctive  quality,  and  ac- 
counts for  its  strength  and  weakness  at  once.  She 
had  left  a  husband  and  children  at  home  and 
spoke  of  them  with  affectionate  interest  frequently, 


344  MRS.  LANCELOT 

but  without  enthusiasm.  Charles  Lancelot,  of 
course,  ministered  like  a  priest  of  the  altar  —  but 
Gervase  fumed  and  raged.  Incredible  servitude 
of  this  absurd  gentleman !  he  would  cry  —  who  by 
a  nod  of  the  head  could  shake  himself  free  of  his 
degrading  habits,  but,  instead,  settled  his  neck 
deeper  into  the  yoke,  and  paid  through  the  nose 
that  it  might  be  chained  the  faster  to  his  old 
shoulders.  There  were,  according  to  him,  but 
two  ways  to  travel :  one  for  the  family  —  the  holy 
way;  one  for  the  pair.  As  for  the  first,  the 
pattern  was  to  be  seen  in  the  Flight  into  Egypt. 
"  If  you  were  indeed  mine,  my  soul,  and  if  you 
had  given  me  the  pledge  of  the  sacrament  without 
which  no  woman  has  her  seal  of  election  —  I 
would  take  you  into  Italy,  meek  and  riding  upon  an 
ass,  your  child  and  mine  upon  your  lap.  I  would 
walk  beside  you,  cheering  the  way.  No  road 
would  be  too  long,  no  labor  too  rough  —  for 
every  step  would  be  taken  in  joy,  and  every  rock 
removed  would  be  a  work  of  love.  Oh,  the 
happy,  long  days  —  oh,  the  nights  of  rest  in  your 
holy  arms !  "  What  would  she  say  to  this  but, 
"  Ah,  my  dearest !  "  or  how  reply  but  by  nestling 
into  his  arms? 

The  second  way  was  that  of  free  companions  — 
companions  errant,  not  yet  approved  for  the  high 
estate  of  parentage.  Here  the  noble  walked 
breast  to  breast,  with  no  thought  but  in  present 


ITALY  AND  THE  LOVERS        345 

joy,  with  no  gear  but  love  in  the  heart.  These 
were  the  prime  essentials  out  of  which  the  others 
—  secondary  but  very  real  —  would  engender 
themselves.  Song  would  flow  unbidden  from  the 
lips,  zest  would  follow  on  an  appointed  round 
— zest  for  sleep  after  toil,  zest  for  toil  after 
sleep,  zest  for  the  fruits  of  love  —  calm,  confidence 
and  peace  of  mind ;  and  from  them  zest  for  love 
again.  "  Put  beside  these  necessaries  —  this 
bread  and  this  wine  of  life  —  the  Duke's  car- 
riage, lackeys,  hamper  of  state,  and  you  see  to 
what  the  poor  man  has  come.  And  we !  —  ah, 
faint-hearted  ones,  what  are  we  doing  with  two 
carriages,  nine  horses,  and  a  horde  of  camp-fol- 
lowers ?  "  What  could  she  do  but  wonder  and 
admire? 

She  defended  her  exalted  friend,  speaking 
warmly  of  his  benevolence  and  greatness  of  soul, 
and  it  is  only  fair  to  both  of  them  to  say  that  the 
Duke  defended  himself  with  ability  when  Gervase 
attacked  him  to  his  face,  which  he  by  no  means 
scrupled  to  do.  An  odd  thing  is  that  the  pair 
got  on  excellently  well.  They  sparred,  but  ap- 
preciated one  another,  and  each  found  the  in- 
herent simplicity  which  each  had  a  bond.  The 
Duke,  of  course,  had  his  way.  Not  even  Ger- 
vase, born  a  mutineer,  could  dispute  it.  Indeed,  he 
found  himself  ministering  like  one  of  the  house- 
hold, and  within  a  few  days  would  have  expected, 


346  MRS.  LANCELOT 

with  all  the  rest  of  them,  the  Heavens  to  rain  blood 
if  the  soup  was  not  on  table  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening.  But  the  young  poet  liked  the  man  of 
great  affairs,  talked  to  him  freely,  rated  him 
soundly,  on  politics,  on  morals,  scorned  his  opin- 
ions of  art  and  letters,  and  took  the  drubbings  he 
frequently  got  in  very  good  part.  On  one  subject 
they  understood  each  other  without  a  word  said. 
Gervase  was  an  inordinate  lover,  no  doubt,  but  he 
had  discernment,  and  was  quick  to  realize  the 
exact  state  of  the  case  between  the  Duke  and 
the  lady  of  his  heart.  "  He  knows  the  length 
of  his  tether;  he  gets  his  pleasure  of  her  in  the 
contemplation  of  her.  He  's  a  better  lover  than 
I  am.  That,  indeed,  is  as  near  perfection  as  a 
lover  who  is  not  loved  can  go."  And  the  Duke, 
who  watched  him  with  his  bright,  hawk's  eyes, 
saw  nothing  to  disapprove  in  the  ardent  ways  of 
this  young  man  with  his  favorite.  He  spoke  very 
frankly  of  the  situation  to  Lady  Caroline  Gunner. 
"  Don't  you  suppose  that  that  pair  is  in  Puy  de 
Dome  with  us.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  They  are  in 
the  Elysian  Fields,  hand  in  hand,  with  the  as- 
phodel brushing  their  knees." 

Lady  Caroline  nodded.  "  One  sees  it,  of 
course;  It's  rather  flagrant,  don't  you  think? 
But  very  innocent,  I  'm  sure.  What  does  Mr. 
Lancelot  think  about  it?  " 

"  He  does  n't  think  about  it  —  and  I  'm  not  go- 


ITALY  AND  THE  LOVERS       347 

ing  to  let  him  begin.  I  like  Charles :  he  's  use- 
ful to  me.  But  he  's  no  use  in  the  world  to  her. 
I  told  him  once  that  I  was  in  love  with  his  wife, 
and  that  there  'd  be  the  devil  in  it  if  we  could  n't 
make  her  happy  between  us.  Of  course,  he 
could  n't  deny  that." 

"  I  don't  suppose  he  could,"  Lady  Caroline 
agreed;  "but  I  don't  suppose,  either,  that  he 
cared  about  it." 

"  You  can't  tell  with  Charles,"  said  the  Duke, 
u  he  's  so  damned  sophisticated.  He  '11  never  talk, 
for  fear  of  letting  himself  know  what  he  thinks  of 
himself."  There  he  had  Charles  to  the  life. 

Lady  Caroline  felt  it  incumbent  upon  her  to 
protest  ever  so  slightly.  "  I  do  think  they  are 
rather  flagrant,  as  I  said  before.  Simplicity  is  all 
very  well,  and  I  like  it.  But  he  kisses  her  handl 
But  they  can't  keep  their  eyes  off  each  other !  It 's 
very  beautiful,  I  know  —  but  is  it  perfectly  de- 
cent?" 

The  Duke  shrugged,  then  rubbed  his  chin. 

"  I  never  was  a  very  decent  man,  myself,"  he 
said,  "  but  I  often  think  that  the  most  indecent 
thing  in  the  world  is  a  pair  of  br — ,  let  me  say, 
shutters.  And  Tartufe  was  the  worst  black- 
guard ever  put  on  the  stage.  Good  God,  Caroline, 
if  you  and  I  can't  live  in  the  Age  of  Gold,  we 
wish  we  could,  I  expect.  I  know  that  I  do,  at  all 
events."  Eight  o'clock  struck;  his  Grace  was 


348  MRS.  LANCELOT 

served;  his  Grace  went  in  to  dinner,  immaculately 
dressed.  The  guests  followed;  but  Georgiana 
turned  down  the  collar  of  Gervase's  coat  before 
they  entered  the  dining-room.  He  wore  it  so  as  a 
protest,  he  cried  out.  She  put  her  hand  over  his 
mouth. 

There  remains  to  be  considered  Charles; 
Charles,  that  son  of  Misfortune,  Charles  with  his 
assumptions,  the  enigma  of  this  tale.  One  gets 
him  best,  I  think,  by  a  roundabout  way,  looking 
at  him  as  a  part  of  one  of  the  pictures  which 
Georgiana  shared  in  daily.  Each  picture  con- 
tained a  pair  of  figures,  with  characteristic  group- 
ing —  for  there  may  be  seen  in  one  or  another 
the  cheerful  buxomness  of  Lady  Caroline  Gunner 
with  her  smoothed  fair  hair,  her  ample  bosom, 
and  everlasting  crochet  needles.  In  the  first  pic- 
ture, then,  sits  Georgiana  with  a  book  on  her  knee, 
opened  but  not  read,  while  the  Duke,  standing  by 
her,  stiff  as  a  ramrod,  close-buttoned  and  high- 
stocked,  speaks  over  her  head,  kindly,  incisive,  des- 
perately frank.  In  the  second  she  reads  deeply, 
and  pinches  her  lip;  near  by  is  Charles,  also 
sitting,  not  reading,  not  speaking,  shading  his 
tired  eyes  with  his  hand.  I  believe  that  he 
has  schooled  himself  not  to  think  in  these  rare 
times  of  relaxation.  So  at  any  rate  he  will 
sit  for  an  hour  or  more  until  Georgiana  sighs, 
looks  up  from  her  book,  and  asks  him  the  hour. 


ITALY  AND  THE  LOVERS        349 

He  gets  out  his  watch,  fixes  his  glasses,  and 
tells  her.  She  rises  slowly,  thinks  she  will  go  to 
bed,  hopes  that  it  will  be  fine  to-morrow,  that  the 
horses  will  be  rested.  He  echoes  all  these  aspira- 
tions with  his  "  Yes,  indeed,  my  love,"  or,  "  Ah, 
to  be  sure  —  that  is  important."  She  comes  to 
him,  stoops,  kisses  his  forehead,  and  leaves  him. 
He  sits  on  for  another  spell,  not  moving,  shading 
his  eyes  from  the  light. 

In  the  third  picture,  which  the  warm  southern 
night  shrouds  in  violet,  Gervase  has  her  close  in 
his  arms.  Her  face  is  as  pale  as  her  gown,  her 
eyes  are  as  bright  as  the  great  wet  stars.  She  is 
tiptoe  to  be  nearer  to  him,  and  her  lips  drink  of 
his.  There  is  never  a  third  to  this  picture,  though 
Gervase  would  care  nothing  if  there  were. 

Charles,  the  harassed  gentleman,  had  no  sus- 
picion of  Gervase,  and  thought  little  about  him. 
He  disapproved  of  him,  root  and  branch,  found 
his  nerves  on  edge  very  frequently,  had  nothing 
to  say  to  him,  or  of  him,  and  nothing  to  learn. 
He  was  no  longer  jealous  of  his  patron  and  friend; 
even  he  with  all  his  morbid  sensibilities  could  have 
had  no  ground  for  such  doubts  after  the  conversa- 
tion of  the  previous  autumn.  At  the  present  mo- 
ment his  despair  of  himself,  of  his  power  of  be- 
ing to  his  wife  what  he  had  —  alas  for  him  — 
assumed  too  readily  he  once  had  been  and  must 


350  MRS.  LANCELOT 

always  be,  had  settled  into  a  deep  and  persistent 
melancholy  from  which  his  routine-work  only 
could  rouse  him.  At  his  desk  he  was  the  alert 
and  vigilant  official  he  had  always  been;  the  mo- 
ment he  left  it  he  became  what  you  have  seen 
him  in  the  picture.  He  had  his  small  talk,  his 
elaborate  locutions,  his  fund  of  anecdote  to  veil 
himself  withal  in  company.  Alone  with  the  Duke 
he  was  affable,  courteous  and  resourceful.  Lady 
Caroline  liked  him  exceedingly  and  never  found 
him  dull:  but  that  was  because  she  talked  nine- 
teen to  the  dozen  herself.  With  Georgiana,  and 
with  her  only,  he  was  frozen  into  numb  silence. 
She  was  a  perpetual  reproach  to  him;  she  wit- 
nessed to  his  conscience  damning  evidence  against 
him.  "  Here,"  she  seemed  to  cry  out,  "  in  my 
heart  is  the  man  who  won  me;  I  know  what  he 
was,  what  he  told  me,  what  I  believed.  And 
there  —  sitting  glum  and  speechless  yonder  —  is 
the  changeling  who  claims  me  now.  I  cry  the 
mercy  of  the  Court."  What  Court,  thought  he 
in  his  ruth,  could  deny  it  her?  He  felt,  poor 
wretch,  like  a  convict  before  her,  and  like  a  con- 
vict despicable  for  his  failure  in  crime,  rather  than 
for  his  crime.  Why,  he  had  had  the  love  of 
this  woman!  She  had  admired  him,  worked  for 
him !  He  had  been  the  only  man  in  her  horizon 
—  and  now !  And  now  he  could  not  open  his 
mouth  to  her.  He  went  before  her  hangdog, 


cowed,  a  cur.  His  courage  was  gone.  In  his 
heart  he  knew  that  he  could  never  cope  with  her 
again.  The  conviction  which  had  agonized  him 
before  now  turned  him  to  despondency. 

But  in  the  great  affair  of  life  —  the  affair  of 
mating  —  there  's  no  allowance  made.  Either  you 
can  or  you  can't,  and  there  's  an  end.  The  Duke 
was  sorry  for  Charles  and  called  him  "  poor 
devil."  He  might  have  been  sorry  for  himself 
too,  but  was  not.  Gervase,  on  the  other  hand, 
abhorred  the  poor  man,  and  called  him  jelly-fish. 
He  roundly  declared  that  he  would  infinitely 
rather  see  Lancelot  fiercely  the  lover  of  his  wife, 
than  know  her  legally  in  the  power  of  such  a 
lump  of  protoplasm  as  he  showed  himself  to  the 
world.  Observers  —  and  there  were  two  at  least 
—  expected  that  the  day  must  come  which  between 
Lancelot  and  Poore  would  be  a  day  of  reckoning. 

But  the  train  of  carriages  and  horses  and  bag- 
gage wagons  straggled  across  France,  carrying 
with  it  well  concealed  from  the  natives  its  private 
concerns,  presenting  only  the  bold  English  front, 
with  its  royal  disregard  of  money  and  calm  ac- 
ceptance of  the  best  that  money  can  do,  which 
in  any  other  nation  than  ours  would  seem  to  in- 
dicate madness.  They  observed  Monseigneur 
riding  his  roan  beside  the  great  berline  in  which 
sat  the  ladies  of  his  family,  the  one  so  large  and 


352  MRS.  LANCELOT 

placid  who  smiled  and  bowed  to  right  and  left  as 
her  needles  flew,  the  other  slim,  elegant  and  pale, 
whose  eagerness  was  concealed,  whose  beauty  was 
of  so  rare  and  fragile  a  type.  They  saw  Charles 
riding  beside  his  chief  and  supposed  him  for  what 
he  was;  but  what  did  they  make  of  Gervase,  that 
wild,  broad-shouldered  young  giant  of  the  flushed 
face  and  tumble  of  pale  hair  forever  flying  over 
his  eyes,  forever  tossed  back?  Those  who  saw 
him  with  the  frail  lady  had  no  difficulty  at  all, 
but  to  them  among  whom  he  strode,  flaming- 
eyed,  muttering  to  himself,  to  whose  children  he 
stooped  to  lift  them  to  his  shoulder,  to  whose  dogs 
he  was  friendly  in  a  foreign  tongue,  he  was  an 
unrelated  apparition.  A  tutor?  A  musician? 
Perchance  a  poet?  Did  Monseigneur  then 
nourish  a  poet?  To  hymn  the  deeds  of  Mon- 
seigneur? To  amuse  the  idle  hours  of  his  ladies? 
Ah,  gaf  the  English  might  do  stranger  things  than 
that. 

Sometimes  he  persuaded  Georgiana  to  walk 
with  him:  he  would  very  seldom  sit  in  the  car- 
riage, for  Lady  Caroline  bored  him  to  outrage. 
The,  poor  lady's  optimism  seemed  to  him  the  most 
arrogant  thing  he  had  ever  dreamed  of.  He 
called  it  her  ointment,  and  declared  that  she 
rolled  in  it  every  morning  before  breakfast.  But 
Georgiana  lived  before  the  day  of  Oread-ladies 
and  soon  tired,  though  she  felt  that  she  could 


ITALY  AND  THE  LOVERS        353 

fly  if  he  would  but  hold  her  hand.  He  took  her 
on  a  wild  adventure  in  Province,  lost  the  way, 
and  had  her  out  amongst  rocks  and  box  bushes 
till  far  into  the  night.  It  was  luckily  warm  and 
still,  and  she  thought  it  the  most  glorious  experi- 
ence she  had  ever  had.  But  the  Duke  was  very 
cross  and  Charles  out  scouring  the  countryside  until 
near  midnight.  Lady  Caroline  said  that  it  was 
the  first  time  she  had  ever  seen  Mr.  Poore  at  a 
loss  for  words;  but  it  is  to  be  remembered  that 
she  had  not  heard  him  with  Georgiana. 

They  reached  Italy  in  mid-April,  traveled  by 
the  famous  sea-road,  and  were  in  Florence  by 
May.  Here  the  Duke  had  hired  a  Medici  villa 
and  kept  great  state.  The  poet  was  kept  from 
his  beloved  and  grew  restive.  Whereupon 
Georgiana  lost  flesh  and  showed  her  collar-bones. 


Ill 

GENIUS   LOCI 

GERVASE  declared  that  he  felt  the  entry  into 
Italy  by  some  subtle  stirring  of  the  blood, 
which  changed  his  human  vesture  and  reduced 
him  from  the  state  of  civilized,  black-coated  man 
to  that  infinitely  finer  thing,  the  unsophisticated 
child  of  Nature.  Whether  that  were  so  or  not  — 
and  Georgiana  believed  it  to  be  true  —  whether 
he  could  ever  have  been  considered  civilized  in 
our  ordinary  understanding  of  civic  being,  cer- 
tain it  is  that  from  Genoa  onwards  he  ceased  to 
accept  the  Duke's  hospitality.  When  the  party 
was  settled  at  the  Villa  Medicea  on  the  bosky 
slopes  of  Fiesole,  he  was  understood  to  be  occupy- 
ing a  cave  in  the  woods  which  hide  the  Mensola 
from  vulgar  eyes.  He  never  appeared  in  com- 
pany at  the  Villa;  he  was  seldom  seen  by  any  of 
the  inhabitants  of  it;  his  rare  visits  to  them  were 
of  the  nature  of  monitions  of  storm.  He  stalked 
about  the  shrubberies,  scowling,  with  folded  arms; 
he  lectured  Lady  Caroline  upon  the  frivolity  of 
her  pursuits,  not  as  loving  whom  he  chastened  by 

354 


GENIUS  LOCI  355 

any  means,  but  using  the  language  of  lofty  in- 
dignation, becoming,  no  doubt,  to  a  god,  but  un- 
acceptable by  the  daughter  of  a  marquis  and  wife 
of  a  baron  from  the  son  of  a  half-pay  officer.  The 
Duke  was  very  much  amused,  and  sought  still 
more  diversion  in  drawing  the  young  man  out;  but 
Gervase  would  have  none  of  his  dry  comments. 
Gervase  regarded  him  just  now  as  the  jailer  of 
Georgiana,  and  had  him  in  horror.  He  told  his 
perplexed  mistress  that  her  name  should  be  more 
properly  Susanna.  u  I  shudder,"  he  said,  "  I 
burn  for  your  shame,  that  you  should  be  here  — 
maintained  here  —  to  feed  the  eyes  of  these  hor- 
rible persons.  And  beyond  your  prison  walls, 
outside  this  madhouse  of  a  villa,  is  Italy,  baring 
her  warm  breasts,  holding  open  her  generous  arms 
to  shelter  you  and  me."  What  could  she  do  but 
stare  pitifully  with  her  great  eyes  at  the  gilded 
gateways  of  the  Medicea,  and  long  for  the  milk 
of  the  breasts  of  Italy? 

He  was  there  morning  and  evening  —  in  the 
cypress  alleys  of  the  garden,  or  among  the  smoky 
olives  of  the  podere  where  the  tulips  and  purple 
anemones  washed  her  feet  as  she  walked  girdled 
with  his  arm.  For  she  came  out  to  him  soon  after 
dawn  and  stayed  with  him  until  the  sun  was  high, 
and  there  were  few  of  the  close  star-strewn  nights 
when  she  had  to  content  herself  with  long  looks 
and  whispered  words  from  the  balcony  of  her 


356  MRS.  LANCELOT 

chamber.  Gervase,  who  had  taken  only  too  kindly 
to  Italy,  was  all  for  a  ladder  of  rope;  but  the 
thought  revolted  her,  and  she  forbade  it.  "  Not 
here,  my  dearest,  not  here !  I  dare  not  —  I  feel 
that  it  would  be  horrible.  It  would  be  treach- 
ery." He  groaned  and  protested  that  it  was 
plain  duty,  on  the  contrary.  Treachery!  He 
blazed  out  at  the  word.  "  Ah,  but  you  seek  to 
make  me  a  traitor  to  God." 

"To  God,  dear  heart!"  she  faltered;  and  he 
held  to  it. 

"  To  no  less  a  one.  Love  is  the  highest  pas- 
sion we  have,  and  the  noblest.  It  is  our  in- 
heritance from  on  high,  and  leads  us  directly  back 
to  the  heights.  Many  are  called,  few  chosen. 
But  you  and  I,  my  soul,  you  and  I  have  felt  the 
call.  How  dare  we  deny  our  vocation?  What 
earthly  convention,  what  miserable  badge  of  our 
degradation  can  be  suffered  to  hold  us  back? 
You  talk  of  treachery  —  and  I  say,  God  keep  us 
from  treachery !  " 

"  The  man  has  marked  you,"  he  said  again  — 
referring,  if  you  please,  to  Charles.  "  The  man 
has  marked  you  for  his  —  as  drovers  brand  their 
cattle,  or  punch  the  ears  of  their  ponies.  To  my 
mind  that  is  so  horrible  a  fact  that  fire  from 
Heaven  can  scarcely  burn  it  out.  What  vainer 
thing  could  the  people  imagine  than  that  man 
should  have  property  in  woman,  in  that  vase  of 


GENIUS  LOCI  357 

election  towards  which  all  holiness  in  man  must 
tend  if  it  would  live?  It  is  as  if  you  were  to 
plunge  a  flower  in  sugar  and  expect  it  to  be  filmy 
and  graciously  open-hearted,  fragrant  and  fresh 
as  once  it  was,  before  the  devastating  hand  was 
laid  upon  it.  Will  men  never  understand  that 
their  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world,  nor  women 
either?"  He  covered  his  eyes.  "I  worship  in 
you  the  dear  spirit  of  God.  I  would  not  dare  to 
touch  you  if  I  did  not  believe  that  I,  and  I  alone, 
had  been  chosen  from  the  beginning  for  your 
mate."  And  then  he  took  her.  "  Mated  we  are, 
my  heart,  in  a  nobler  world  than  this,  a  world 
where  dukes  are  not,  nor  Treasury  officials,  but 
free  spirits  roaming  at  large  upon  their  everlasting 
commerce  of  contemplation,  ecstasy,  noble  rage: 
divine  business  where  passion  is  seen  for  what  it 
really  is,  the  Godlike  energy  driving  us  forth  to 
our  work  of  creation.  For  we  too,  my  soul,  are 
gods,  and  it  is  ours  to  seek  beauty  and  to  make 
it.  Nothing  should  hinder  us  from  that  —  it  is 
our  only  justification  for  being  here  at  all.  We 
wrong  God,  stultify  Him,  make  Him  a  fool,  if 
we  falter  and  draw  back."  And  then  his  hot 
whispering  smote  at  her  ears  — "  Ah,  my  love, 
come  —  come  soon,  deny  me  not  1  "  And  what 
could  she  do  but  shiver  when,  having  torn  herself 
from  him,  she  returned  into  the  great  splendid 
house  and  found  Charles  at  one  end  of  the  room, 


358  MRS.  LANCELOT 

shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  while  he  perused 
state  papers  or  some  foolish  sheet  of  news  of 
things  already  done?  Or  what  was  she  to  think 
of  the  Duke  impatient  for  his  bed,  yawning 
through  a  game  of  piquet  with  Lady  Caroline? 
Gervase  had  driven  home  his  doctrine:  these 
things  were  less  than  nothing,  vainer  than  the  bub- 
bles of  scum  which  froth  upon  a  pond. 

She  lived,  poor  lady,  a  double  life  in  these 
days.  Every  morning  after  her  secret  communi- 
cation with  her  lover,  she  received  a  letter  in 
which  the  words  seemed  to  scald  her  heart  as  she 
read  them.  Every  day  she  had  a  sonnet;  every 
night  she  saw,  if  she  could  not  speak  with,  him. 
Unmarked  by  herself  her  aspect  towards  the 
common  life  of  every-day  Inanity  changed.  She 
dwelt  apart,  if  not  like  the  star  he  proclaimed  her, 
then  like  an  alien  from  the  common  lot.  But  as 
her  self-command  was  infinitely  above  that  of 
Gervase,  as  that  of  any  woman  is  above  that  of 
any  man,  she  went  through  the  duties  of  her  place 
with  a  quiet  courage  which  should  have  made  her 
lover  love  her  more  —  but,  instead,  shocked  him 
into4  silence.  It  often  happened  that  what  she 
had  driven  herself  to  do  in  public  with  all  her 
nerve,  she  had  to  undo  for  his  peace  of  mind  — 
with  a  reinforcement  (brought  up  somehow)  of 
nerve.  So  she  was  forever  dressing  up  her  soul 
for  the  vulgar  and  stripping  it  again  to  show  her 


GENIUS  LOCI  359 

secret  spouse  that  all  was  well  with  her  beauty,  and 
that  the  flame  upon  the  altar  of  her  heart  burned 
clear  behind  the  trappings  and  weeds.  And  then 

—  to  the  masquerade  anew  1     Her  endurance  was 
wonderful,  but  the  breaking-point  could  not  be  far. 
The  spell  of  Italy,  the  soft  invitation  to  surrender 
with  which   its  mild  blue  skies,   its  radiance,  its 
fecund  heat  wooed  her  every  sense ;  and  its  tribute 
to  beauty  at  every  street  corner,  in  every  cloister, 
over  every  shrine;  its  sanction  to  passion,  its  idol- 
atry of  love  (as  indeed  what  Gervase  preached  it) 

—  against  all  this,  and  with  her  heart  alight,  with 
her  body  quivering  for  caresses,  her  lips  athirst, 
her  eyes  never  yet  filled  —  against  all  this,  what 
could  she  do?     Now  she  dallied  with  the  thought. 
It  was  possible,  yes,  it  was  possible  that  the  perfect 
life  could  be  lived  —  here  and  soon.     Not  now  — 
oh,  not  now  —  but  soon ! 

Gervase,  for  his  part,  saw  nothing  for  it  but  to 
take  her  away,  and  the  sooner  the  better.  His 
case  was  this  —  that  here  was  a  young  and  beauti- 
ful creature  being  starved  to  death  of  the  proper 
food  of  all  of  us.  Now  starvation  may  be  acqui- 
esced in  where  there  is  necessity,  as  there  is  when 
no  food  can  be  had.  You  do  not  then  call  Nature 
murderess,  but  you  say  the  gods  so  decree.  But 
if  the  food  is  there,  are  you  a  robber  if  you  take 
the  famished  to  where  it  is?  The  idea  is  absurd. 
In  this  case  Georgiana  was  starving  and  Gervase 
23 


360  MRS.  LANCELOT 

could  feed  her,  he  and  no  other.  It  seemed  to  him 
his  plain  duty.  To  accomplish  it,  therefore,  to 
save  her  soul  alive,  he  had  to  do  violence  to  his  re- 
spect for  her  gentleness;  he  had  to  insist,  to  harp, 
to  overbear.  Also  he  must  keep  his  eyes  open  for 
opportunity  —  and  he  did. 

The  Duke's  party  was  to  leave  Florence  in  the 
middle  of  May  and  betake  itself  to  a  castle  in  the 
Apennines  where  the  summer  heats  would  be  tem- 
pered by  breezes.  From  thence  he  thought  the 
deed  might  be  done.  Complete  visionary  as  he 
was,  he  had  no  definite  idea  in  his  head.  He  sup- 
posed that  they  would  go  by  night,  and  would  go 
north.  Lake  Garda  struck  him  by  its  name,  and 
its  association  with  Catullus.  He  would  read  the 
poet  to  her  there.  He  had  no  expectation  of  be- 
ing followed,  but  in  any  case  would  not  dream  of 
concealing  their  whereabouts.  If  the  Duke  came 
after  them  he  should  have  to  use  reason  and  fore- 
saw himself  successful ;  if  Lancelot,  he  should  know 
how  to  deal.  Indignation  would  help  him  there; 
for  of  the  two  men,  if  the  Duke  made  him  fume, 
Lancelot  outraged  his  moral  sense  as  a  blasphemer 
of  the  holiest.  Lancelot  represented  the  abom- 
inable law  by  which  a  girl,  having  been  cajoled  into 
a  union  with  a  man,  hateful  in  its  very  essence, 
could  be  compelled  by  the  prestige  of  custom  to 
yield  to  him  when  her  experience  and  growing 
sense  told  her  heart  that  it  was  horrible.  The 


GENIUS  LOCI  361 

Duke  at  least  had  won  her  mature  regard  —  but 
as  he  had  and  could  have  nothing  else,  one  could 
treat  him  more  gently.  There  was  no  reason  why 
the  Duke  should  not  continue  in  her  friendship  or 
supply  any  need  to  her  which  she  lacked  —  should 
there  be  any.  But  he  smiled  as  he  thought  of  that, 
and  judged  that  there  would  be  none.  He  was  a 
confident  young  man  in  most  things,  but  in  nothing 
more  absolutely  confident  than  in  his  possession 
of  Georgiana's  heart  and  mind. 

For  the  future  he  took  no  thought  at  all. 
Whether  Georgiana  had  money  of  her  own  or  not, 
whether,  if  she  had  any,  it  was  in  her  own  dis- 
posal; how  far  his  own  resources  could  be 
stretched;  by  what  means  one  was  to  live  without 
an  income  —  of  these  things  not  a  shadow  of  con- 
cern. Literally  he  confined  his  preparations  to 
supplying  the  material  of  the  only  pictures  which 
he  saw  in  front  of  him.  He  saw  a  tall  machic- 
olated  wall,  trees  on  one  side  of  it,  a  long  white 
road  on  the  other,  fading  into  a  far  distance  of 
clouds  and  mountain  peaks.  At  a  point  of  place 
stood  a  carriage,  at  a  point  of  time  Georgiana 
came  tiptoe  through  the  gate,  and  fell  with  sighs 
into  his  arms.  He  cheered  her  with  kisses  —  her 
lips  were  cold  —  and  high  words  which  brought 
the  love  into  her  eyes;  he  helped  her  in,  sat  beside 
her;  she  clung  to  him,  hid  her  face.  The  whip 
cracked,  the  horses  flew;  together  they  looked  for- 


362  MRS.  LANCELOT 

ward,  and  presently  saw  the  dawn  steal  up  over 
the  edge  of  the  world.  The  sun  shone  upon  his 
beloved,  appeased,  asleep  in  his  arms.  And  their 
life  together,  as  he  foresaw  it,  was  to  be  one  long 
vigil,  and  one  great  fruition,  a  miracle  of  grace 
perpetually  awaited  and  infallibly  vouchsafed. 
He  saw  nothing  else;  and  if  obstacles  had  been 
pointed  out  to  him  would  have  laughed  them  to 
scorn.  This  is  not  very  curious,  perhaps;  but 
what  is  curious  is  that  if  he  could  have  kept 
himself,  or  been  kept  by  his  genius,  at  this  high 
pitch  all  or  any  obstacles  would  have  been  scorn- 
worthy. 

To  him,  with  his  fiery  intellect  and  ungoverned 
emotions,  love  was  a  furious  possession.  He 
himself  became  a  chariot  in  the  holding  of  a  god. 
He  shook  under  his  driver  as  a  man  in  a  fever; 
he  drove  now  this  way,  now  that,  now  high,  now 
low  —  but  always  straight  to  the  mark.  He  was 
capable  of  the  wildest  flights,  of  the  most  incon- 
gruous labors.  There  was  no  summit  of  human 
activity  to  which  he  could  not  have  attained.  He 
could  have  been  prime  minister  with  ease,  have 
led  armies  across  Europe,  have  managed  the  Bank 
of  England.  These  were  his  times  of  exaltation, 
when  he  was  irresistible.  But  there  were  others, 
when  he  was  momentarily  emptied  of  his  tenant, 
and  could  do  nothing  —  could  neither  write,  nor 
speak,  nor  make  love.  A  lethargy  lay  upon  him ; 


The  sun  to  him  was  dark,  and  silent  was  the  moon. 


GENIUS  LOCI  365 

his  eye  lacked  luster,  his  hue  was  leaden,  his  blood 
seemed  mud.  The  sun  to  him  was  dark,  and 
silent  was  the  moon;  vast  and  unheaving,  barely 
quivering  he  lay,  until  his  demon  returned  from 
coursing  abroad. 

Such  violent  alternations  made  Georgiana  no 
fatter.  Poor  soul,  she  must  agonize  in  either  case. 
With  all  the  mind,  she  had  not  the  vitality  to  cope 
with  him.  Half-heartedly  she  panted  after  him 
when  he  led  her  sweeping  through  the  sky;  she 
exhausted  herself  in  efforts  to  put  spirit  into  him 
when  he  lay,  an  inert  mass,  by  her  knees.  She 
herself,  seated  by  her  nature  gently  in  the  mean, 
could  neither  realize  his  elation  nor  fall  into  his 
despair.  She  could  have  smiled  to  herself  when 
he  addressed  her  as  a  supernatural  being,  if  she 
had  not  been  too  much  frightened.  Alas,  she 
suspected  that  she  was  loved  by  yet  another  phan- 
tom, the  victim  of  new  and  huge  assumptions. 
He  was  of  the  fairy  kind,  this  new  spirit,  incalcu- 
lable, wayward,  and  possibly  as  ruthless  as  any  of 
his  race.  Her  charity  was  abounding;  her  love 
and  consideration  for  him  inexhaustible;  but  it  is 
the  fact  that  although  he  could  be  more  tender 
than  any  woman,  he  could  also  be  merciless  upon 
occasion,  condemning  with  one  tremendous  sweep 
of  the  hand  her  life,  her  conscience,  her  convincing 
duties.  It  meant  everything  in  the  world  to  her, 
this  love  of  his ;  but  deep  in  her  heart  she  had  the 


366  MRS.  LANCELOT 

conviction  that  it  could  not  last.  Such  wild  com- 
merce was  not  for  her. 

And  yet  the  assumption  was  made,  and  she  was 
to  suffer  it  to  take  its  course,  and  gather  her  up 
in  the  whirlwind  to  be  made  by  its  beating  wings. 
In  moments  of  perplexity  she  looked  wistfully  to 
the  Duke.  Would  he  give  her  counsel?  Dare 
she  ask  it  of  him  ?  But  she  always  shook  her  head. 
It  would  be  disloyal  to  Gervase,  as  implying  dis- 
trust. She  must  tread  her  way  alone. 

Of  Charles  she  thought  scarcely  at  all.  There 
was  no  room  in  her  heart  for  more  than  one  at  a 
time,  and  that  poor  gentleman  had  never  made 
himself  at  home  there. 

So  the  time  drew  near  when  the  great  Assump- 
tion was  to  be  made. 


IV 

FONTEMAGRA 

THE  Castle  of  Fontemagra,  with  the  chest- 
nut woods  and  the  cascade  of  the  Magra 
for  which  it  is  famous,  is  in  the  Lunigiana  and 
commands  a  magnificent  western  prospect.  The 
bay  of  Spezzia  lies  below  it;  but  so  deeply  below 
that  you  would  suppose  a  stone's  throw  would 
give  you  a  splash  of  white  in  the  blue  for  your 
pains.  The  domains  cover  two  hills  —  the  Magra 
upon  its  short  course  runs  between.  The  roads 
fork  from  a  crucifix  about  a  mile  below  the  Castle: 
one  goes  to  Chiavari  and  so  to  France;  the  other 
into  Lombardy.  The  house  itself  is  very  fine  — 
a  medieval  fortress,  which  Delia  Spina  defended 
against  Castruccio,  and  where  a  later  and  more 
fortunate  Castruccio,  the  Corsican,  Bonaparte  (as 
the  Duke  always  called  him,  to  Gervase  Poore's 
dismay  and  disgust) ,  stayed  more  than  once  during 
the  Italian  campaign;  a  medieval  fortress  with 
later  additions,  Renaissance,  post-Renaissance,  and 
frank  eighteenth-century  imitation  pasteboard. 
The  reception  rooms  should  be  measured  by  the 
acre;  the  bedrooms  would  each  contain  a  family. 

367 


368  MRS.  LANCELOT 

For  those  who  like  the  Italian  style  of  garden,  an 
art  for  the  stonemason  rather  than  the  gardener,  I 
don't  know  that  Fontemagra  could  be  beaten. 
The  way  down  from  the  great  terrace  to  the  fork 
in  the  road,  for  example  (not  the  carriageway, 
which  goes  in  enormous  spirals  of  half  a  mile  each, 
but  the  footway),  is  constructed  in  a  series  of 
broad  flights  of  steps  relieved  by  vast  amphithea- 
ters of  marble  balustrades  and  statues,  backed  by 
cut  ilex  hedges  twenty  feet  high.  There  are  per- 
haps eight  or  a  dozen  of  these  grandiose  resting- 
places;  to  them  alternately  the  steps  converge, 
from  them  alternately  dilate.  More  magnificent 
approach  to  a  stately  building  can  hardly  be  im- 
agined. From  the  midmost  of  them  a  broad  walk 
leads  you  to  the  Cascade  of  the  Magra,  whose  roar 
in  times  of  flood  can  be  heard  from  every  room  in 
the  castle  a  thousand  feet  above  it. 

The  Devizes  party  installed  itself  in  this 
princely  habitation  in  May,  intending  to  ^pend 
the  summer,  and  brave  out  the  summer  heats.  It 
was  understood  that  the  Duke  intended  to  devote 
his  leisure  to  the  preparation  of  his  memoirs,  and 
that  Charles  Lancelot  was  to  give  his  mind  to 
them.  The  honest  man  took  the  understanding 
with  that  seriousness  which  was  his  whole  justifica- 
tion. Georgiana  would  have  been  much  inter- 
ested, but  for  the  urgency  of  her  own  affairs. 


FONTEMAGRA  369 

Lady  Caroline  had  just  gone  home  to  her  family, 
and  Gervase  stalked  the  woods,  coming  and  going 
fitfully.  At  the  end  of  May  he  disappeared 
altogether.  Georgiana,  it  was  supposed,  knew 
where  he  was.  As  a  fact,  she  heard  from  him  daily. 
During  the  first  week  in  June,  by  which  time  the 
military  routine  which  was  essential  to  the  Duke's 
well-being  had  been  completely  established,  she 
hardly  left  him  for  an  hour  in  the  day.  She  said 
very  little  to  him  —  nothing  indeed  of  her  affairs; 
but  seemed  ill  at  ease  if  she  was  away  from  him, 
and  to  like  when  they  were  together  to  take  his 
arm,  or  give  him  her  hand  to  hold.  He  noticed  it, 
of  course;  he  watched  her  closely,  even  expected 
momently  that  she  would  confide  in  him;  but  she 
never  did  that.  It  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue 
to  provoke  her  to  break  her  silence  —  he  judged 
it  would  be  easy;  but  two  considerations,  one  sen- 
timental and  one  sensual,  checked  him.  It  seemed 
to  him  a  brutality  to  explore  her  heart;  and  this 
clinging  affection  gave  him  extreme  pleasure.  Its 
very  dumbness  excited  him;  its  flattery  appealed  to 
his  imagination,  just  as  the  touch  of  her  stirred  his 
sense.  It  was  like  the  unexpected  attentions  of  a 
child  given  to  one  who  is  childless  and  too  much 
aware  of  it.  The  days  went  slowly,  the  woods  in- 
vited her,  Gervase,  he  knew,  could  not  be  far  off ; 
but  yet  she  would  not  leave  him.  She  brought 
him  his  morning  tea  and  toast  with  her  own  hands, 


370  MRS.  LANCELOT 

sat  with  him  while  he  took  it;  was  ready  for  him 
when  he  took  his  walk  up  and  down  the  terrace, 
in  the  still  hours,  misty  with  promise,  before  the 
sun  came  streaming  over  the  mountain  tops  and 
bade  the  world  be  still,  left  him  then  only  for 
Charles  and  the  memoirs;  rode  with  him  in  the 
woods  at  noon;  read  him  into  the  siesta  mood  after 
luncheon,  and  even  sat  with  him  while  he  slept. 
In  the  afternoon  she  prepared  his  notes  for  the 
evening's  work  with  Charles;  dressed  herself  next 
as  he  would  have  her  for  dinner;  played  piquet 
with  him  after  that,  and  then  read  to  him  until 
it  was  time  for  bed.  Dull  days,  and  he  knew  that 
for  her  they  must  be  dull,  with  her  heart  elsewhere, 
and  her  senses  young  and  tingling.  Under  her 
gentle  ministry  of  two  years,  he  was  relaxing 
quietly  into  old  age  —  and  felt  it ;  but  he  could  not 
deny  himself  this  use  of  her;  and  afterwards  he 
had  to  live  upon  the  memory  of  it.  She  allowed 
him,  indeed,  as  much  as  he  now  wished  to  have ;  she 
had  schooled  him  well.  He  fondled  her,  and  she 
seemed  to  wish  it;  he  kissed  her  cheek  night 
and  morning,  and  at  other  times  she  invited 
his  kisses.  She  gave  no  signs  of  being  bored;  he 
fancied  that  she  might  have  been  so  if  she  had 
not  been  with  him.  She  seemed  not  to  miss  the 
fiery  talk,  the  daring  imagery,  the  hardy  probing 
of  mysteries  earthly  and  heavenly  with  which  Ger- 
vase  Poore  made  her  hours  fly.  In  short,  during 


FONTEMAGRA  371 

this  one  week  all  her  womanly  defenses  were  laid 
aside :  she  stood  to  him  almost  exactly  as  the  young 
wife  of  an  old  man  might  be  well  content  to  stand 
—  privy  to  him,  at  his  full  discretion;  and  as  such 
he  took  her,  and  was  able  to  justify  her  confidence. 
With  Charles,  her  husband  under  the  law,  she 
was  precisely  the  opposite  of  all  this.  She  kept 
away  from  him  as  much  as  she  could.  This,  too, 
the  Duke  observed.  She  almost  shunned  him. 
He  wondered  whether  this  had  a  physical  or 
a  moral  cause.  Physical,  he  thought,  when  he 
noticed  that  she  had  ceased  to  give  him  her 
cheek;  moral,  he  thought,  when  he  once  caught 
the  direction  of  her  eyes,  fixed  upon  the  unfortu- 
nate man  with  a  kind  of  penetrating  pity,  which 
forgave  him  and  justified  her  to  herself  in  one  and 
the  same  keen  shaft.  During  this  week  the  Duke 
supposed  (when  he  reviewed  it  afterwards)  that 
she  and  Charles  had  hardly  exchanged  three  sen- 
tences. Good  God !  he  cried  to  himself,  what  she 
must  have  suffered  —  and  what  he !  It  was  this 
thought  above  all  others  which  made  him  take  the 
line  that  he  did  in  what  was  to  follow. 

She  was  very  far  from  finding  the  days  dull, 
passed  as  they  seemed  to  be  in  the  routine  of 
trivial  detail.  Probably  she  had  never  lived  so 
fast  or  traveled  so  far  in  the  whole  course  of  her 
life.  .Wings  had  grown  upon  her  unawares;  they 


372  MRS.  LANCELOT 

lifted  her  spirit  to  soar.  She  could  contemplate 
her  own  body  far  below  her  performing  its  little 
functions.  Compassion  and  not  compunction  sent 
that  to  the  Duke's,  and  bid  it  cherish  him  while  it 
was  possible;  the  pity  of  a  creature  freed  for  fel- 
low-prisoners left  behind.  She  saw  nothing  of 
her  lover  and  strong  deliverer;  did  not,  presently, 
hear  from  him.  Everything  had  been  arranged; 
her  hour  was  fixed.  What  need  of  written  words, 
of  assurances  of  the  eye,  of  the  arms,  of  touching 
lips,  when  their  spirits  could  meet  in  the  blue  — 
when  all  night  long,  while  their  limbs  lay  supine, 
side  by  side  they  could  stream  through  the  upper 
air,  and  thread  their  swift  way  in  and  out  of  the 
star-scattered  fields  of  space?  Dimly  and  halt- 
ingly as  she  figured  these  truths,  she  lived  them 
intensely;  and  as  her  hour  drew  near  her  spirits 
rose,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  become  so 
light  that  her  feet  would  scarcely  keep  on  the 
ground,  and  sometimes,  coming  downstairs,  she 
grew  frightened  and  gripped  at  the  banisters  for  a 
hold  on  herself. 

All  her  pity,  all  her  care,  was  for  the  Duke.  It 
was  not  that  she  abhorred  Charles,  but  that  now 
he  shocked  her.  He  stood  for  everything  that 
was  squalid  in  life  as  she  now  saw  it.  There  was 
a  greatness  and  a  potential  freedom  about  the 
Duke;  but  Charles  was  not  only  a  galley-slave, 
chained  to  a  bench  and  an  oar  —  but  preferred  it 


FONTEMAGRA  373 

so.  He  had  assumed  intolerably,  and  now  that 
she  was  making  a  greater  Assumption  than  he 
could  dream  of  she  saw  his  for  what  they  were 
worth.  Not  only  she  had  no  pity  for  Charles, 
but  she  had  a  sort  of  disapproval  of  him.  She 
kept  aloof  from  him  lest  some  of  his  tarnish  — 
some  breath  —  should  light  upon  her  shining  new 
wings.  In  all  this  she  was  outrageously  unfair, 
to  him  and  to  herself;  but  women  of  imagination, 
in  love  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  are  not  hu- 
man beings,  but  winged  spirits.  They  are  of  the 
company  of  the  nymphs  and  fairies  —  beautiful, 
swift  to  seek,  single-minded,  ruthless  in  purpose, 
happy  only  in  activity;  they  belong  to  the  rest  of 
nature,  are  non-moral  and  divine.  They,  with  the 
rest  of  nature,  are  of  the  infinite,  because  they  are 
non-social,  and  have  no  need  to  make  rules  for 
their  protection.  They  need  no  protection;  nor 
do  any  of  us,  until  we  lose  our  wings.  Then,  run- 
ning to  our  pathetic  fallacy,  we  cry  upon  the  cru- 
elty of  fate.  In  this  we  are,  of  course,  absurd;  for 
you  cannot  at  the  same  time  admire  the  splendor 
of  the  storm  and  hide  yourself  from  it  with  an 
umbrella. 

The  morning  of  the  7th  of  June  opened  with 
mist,  and  unfolded  by  mid-day  to  all  the  fer- 
vor of  the  sun.  The  leaves  winked  in  the  heat, 
the  air  seemed  liquid  and  alive;  there  was 


374  MRS.  LANCELOT 

no  sound  but  the  shrilling  of  the  cicala,  or  of  the 
lizard  rustling  dry  on  the  wall.  It  was  too  hot  to 
ride.  About  the  darkened  house,  nevertheless, 
Georgiana  flitted  in  white  like  a  slim  moth.  She 
was  pale,  large-eyed,  and  very  restless.  She 
hovered  about  her  friend,  watching  him  with  in- 
tensely deep-seeing  eyes,  with  lips  upon  which  a 
smile,  vague  and  uninformed,  flickered  and  played 
and  flashed  like  summer  lightning.  He  was  very 
much  aware  of  it.  Once  he  caught  her,  looked  at 
her  in  a  way  which  seemed  to  challenge  her  secret. 
She  allowed  it,  flushed  and  glowed.  He  saw,  or 
thought  he  saw,  her  eyes  grow  hot.  '  You  witch," 
he  said,  "  you  fairy  Mab,  where  are  your  wits 
hatching  mischief?  " 

She  narrowed  her  eyes  to  gleams  of  dark  blue. 
"  Far  from  here  —  far  away,"  she  said,  rather 
breathlessly.  He  felt  her  heart  beat  as  he  held 
her.  u  By  the  Lord,"  he  said,  "  I  believe  you  are 
going  to  play  me  a  trick."  She  looked  away  over 
the  dark  length  of  the  room,  considering.  "  Who 
knows?"  she  said.  And  then  she  turned  herself 
in  his  arm  and  looked,  not  up  at  him,  but  at  the 
pin  in  his  cravat.  She  lifted  her  hand  to  it,  and 
turned  it  as  she  spoke.  "  Whatever  I  do,  what- 
ever I  am,  or  become,  don't  forget  that  I  have 
loved  you  as  much  as  I  could,  and  have  been  proud 
to  be  loved  by  you."  He  held  her  closely.  "  No, 
no,  my  child,  I  shan't  forget.  We  Ve  been  great 


FONTEMAGRA  375 

friends.  I  never  had  a  greater.  You  've  been 
more  to  me  than  wife  and  child."  Then  he  kissed 
her  forehead. 

She  was  still  thoughtful,  and  stirred  in  his  arms, 
her  hand  and  her  eyes  still  busy  with  the  cameo 
pin.  "  I  like  to  hear  you  say  that  you  won't  for- 
get. And  in  your  case  I  believe  it.  That  is  much 
more  than  merely  being  flattered,  you  know.  I 
wish  to  believe  it  —  and  I  do."  He  looked  at  her 
and  (hought  her  still  a  child.  She  was  a  mere 
slip  of  a  thing,  like  a  wand  of  some  willowy  tree, 
which  his  arm  might  hold.  He  knew  her  not  for 
him,  knew  that  she  never  had  been ;  but  he  felt  him- 
self growing  to  dote  by  reason  of  the  spell  of  her 
body's  beauty  and  young  strength;  and  he  let  her 
go.  "You  fairy,"  he  said,  "you  fairy-wife. 
When  I  am  under  your  spell  you  can  do  as  you 
please  with  me." 

He  saw  the  gleam  of  laughing  mischief  in  her 
eyes.  "  Don't  tempt  me,"  she  said,  "  to  prove  my 
power."  He  pinched  her  chin. 

"  On  the  contrary,  my  dear,  I  '11  have  a  shot  at 
proving  mine.  You  shall  put  on  your  best  gown 
to-night.  I  want  to  see  you  while  the  fit  is  on 
you  to  look  well.  You  shift  and  veer  like  a 
weathercock.  But  the  wind  is  fair  from  the  west 
to-day.  Who  knows?  To-morrow  you  may  be 
playing  the  nun,  or  droop  like  a  molting  hen- 
pheasant  1  " 


MRS.  LANCELOT 

She  blushed  hotly,  looked  down,  and  smiled, 
then  shook  her  head.  "  Not  to-morrow  certainly. 
I  believe,  never  again." 

He  gave  her  a  sharp  scrutiny.  "  You  feel  so 
sure?"  She  returned  it 

"  I  feel  perfectly  sure." 

"  I  wish  that  I  did,  Georgie,"  he  said  dryly. 
"  Remember,  I  'm  your  backer  through  everything 
—  but  sometimes  I  have  qualms." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  then,  and  while  he  held 
it  said  earnestly,  "  Have  none.  And  don't  forget 
that  nothing  will  ever  make  any  difference  between 
us.  Nothing  in  the  world." 

He  kissed  the  little  thin  hand.  "  I  am  sure  of 
it.  But  I  'm  not  the  only  one,  you  know."  He 
jerked  his  head  towards  the  library.  He  saw  her 
frown.  For  a  perceptible  pause  of  time  she  had 
no  answer.  Then  she  said,  "  I  can't  live  like  this. 
There  's  a  point  beyond  which  I  can't  go.  It 's 
too  much.  It 's  not  fair  —  it 's  not  reasonable. 
I  Ve  tried  everything."  She  shook  her  head 
fiercely  as  if  to  get  a  thought  out  of  it.  "  Don't 
let  us  talk  —  talking  is  so  vain." 

She  closed  her  eyes,  and  when  she  opened  them 
showed  him  a  new  clear  light  as  of  a  spring  morn- 
ing before  the  sun.  "  You  want  me  to  look  pretty 
to-night?  Well,  I  will.  What  shall  I  wear? 
You  shall  dress  me." 


FONTEMAGRA  377 

"  By  George,  I  wish  you  meant  that!  "  he  said. 
She  laughed. 

"  I  mean,  of  course,  by  order.  Martha  will  be 
aide-de-camp." 

He  named  the  gown,  he  named  the  head-dress, 
the  very  jewels  she  was  to  wear.  They  had  been 
his  gift.  She  promised,  and  was  about  to  go,  but 
suddenly  experienced  a  great  access  of  tenderness, 
and  leaned  towards  him.  "  Dear,  kind,  trusty 
friend !  "  she  said,  and  put  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders.  He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  held  her 
there.  Her  tears  were  not  far  off,  but  she  held 
them  back.  They  kissed;  she  released  herself 
and  went  to  her  room. 

At  dinner  her  high  spirits  were  maintained. 
She  was  pledged  by  him,  and  pledged  him  again; 
she  talked  to  Charles,  laughed  at  him  in  a  friendly, 
easy  way,  and  had  more  to  say  for  herself  at  that 
one  meal  than  she  had  had  for  a  week  before. 
There  was  about  her  all  the  adorable  child  she  had 
the  power  of  being  at  will  —  a  playful  tenderness, 
a  wooing  charm,  an  innocent  malice  which  had  no 
sting.  After  dinner  she  was  much  quieter,  but 
never  depressed  or  silent.  She  played  out  the 
Duke's  piquet,  and  afterwards  read  to  him  and 
Charles,  while  he  nodded  and  pretended  that  he 
did  not,  and  the  other  sat  glooming  over  his 

thoughts. 

24 


378  MRS.  LANCELOT 

At  ten  o'clock  she  rose  and  put  her  book  away. 
"  I  have  read  enough.  Now  I  am  going.  Good- 
night." They  both  stood  up,  and  there  followed 
that  which  they  afterwards  found  memorable. 
She  went  to  Charles,  put  a  hand  lightly  on  his 
shoulder,  and  leaned  her  cheek  to  him.  "  Good- 
night, Charles,"  she  said.  Then  to  the  Duke  she 
gave  her  hand,  which  he  held. 

"  Good-night,  Duke."  Her  manner  was  cool, 
entirely  different  from  that  of  a  few  hours  before. 

He  took  her  as  she  chose.  "  Good-night,  my 
lady.  Sleep  well." 

She  raised  her  brows;  her  eyes  looked  scared, 
but  there  was  a  play  in  them  too.  "  Ah !  Who 
knows?  Perhaps  I  shan't  sleep  a  wink."  And 
then,  as  he  looked  at  her,  she  suddenly  put  up  her 
face  to  him,  and  he  kissed  her  fairly. 

Upon  that  she  tripped  away,  but  standing  at 
the  door,  looked  back,  smiled,  and  kissed  her 
hand.  Within  an  hour  she  had  left  the  house  — 
nothing  with  her  —  and  was  with  her  lover. 
Even  as  the  two  men  sat  in  the  library  she  must 
have  flitted  by  them  along  the  terrace,  and  had 
one  been  out  and  about,  in  that  luminous  Italian 
night,  never  quite  dark,  one  could  have  seen  her 
white  descent  down  the  ghostly  broad  steps,  from 
terrace  to  terrace  until  she  was  engulfed  in  the 
blue  depths  of  the  woods. 

At  the  small  gate  into  the  road  was  Gervase 


FONTEMAGRA  379 

cloaked,  and  carrying  a  cloak.  The  moment  she 
appeared  he  strode  forward,  and  threw  this  over 
her.  "  My  Saint  —  come  to  me  from  Heaven!  " 
he  said;  and,  "Quick,  love,  I  am  burning." 


V 

GERVASE'S  TEETH 

HE  took  her  to  a  village  called  Ronciglione, 
above  Rapallo,  on  a  slope  of  the  vine- 
bright  hills  which  overhang  the  sea;  and  there 
he  set  up  for  her  a  school  of  love,  and  taught 
her  the  mysteries  of  it.  He  encompassed  her  with 
all  the  wild  observance  which  youth  and  genius 
ever  pay  to  beauty  and  gentleness.  She  was  both 
pliant  and  enthusiastic.  They  lived  out  a  dream 
of  the  Golden  Age;  whether  it  was  to  last, 
whether  it  could  last  they  knew  not,  neither 
stayed  to  inquire.  They  were  nymph  and  faun, 
the  everlasting  shepherd  and  shepherdess,  Daph- 
nis  and  Chloe  of  old.  Bread  and  milk,  cherries 
and  kisses  were  their  food;  fern-fronds  made  their 
bed;  wood-doves  called  them  betimes  in  the  morn- 
ing; poetry  was  their  talk.  All  her  former  life 
floated  off  like  the  mists  of  night  before  such  a 
dawn  as  this.  It  was  gone  like  a  feverish  dream. 
She  grew  rosy,  her  eyes  were  like  stars.  She 
sighed  sometimes  and  clung  to  him  in  a  moment's 
anguish  that  she  had  no  words  wherewith  to  ex- 
press her  joy. 

380 


GERVASE'S  TEETH  381 

He  had  had  a  moment  of  worldly  wisdom  in 
which  he  wrote  a  letter  to  Lancelot.  He  wrote 
very  shortly,  from  Rapallo.  "  I  have  her  safely 
here,  where  she  may  have  for  the  first  time  rea- 
sonable life,  health,  and  a  knowledge  of  essential 
truth.  I  am  to  be  heard  of  from  the  parish  priest 
of  this  place.  If  you  come  you  shall  see  me,  hear 
me  and  be  heard.  Her  you  shall  never  see  again, 
God  helping." 

That  punctilio  observed,  he  dismissed  Charles 
and  the  rest  of  the  world  from  his  mind,  and 
betook  himself  and  his  beloved  to  the  heights, 
there  to  the  study  and  practice  of  poetry  as  it 
might  be  lived.  He  had  not  mentioned  to  her 
the  fact  of  his  writing,  and  was  satisfied  that  she 
had  no  desire  to  communicate  with  the  Duke.  He 
waited  serenely  for  the  appearance  of  Charles, 
of  which,  sooner  or  later,  he  had  no  doubt. 

A  week  or  ten  days  passed,  and  then  he  knew 
that  the  hour  was  come.  He  was  with  his  mis- 
tress under  the  olive  trees  upon  the  headland, 
in  the  afternoon.  She  lay  asleep  in  his  arms, 
her  cheek  against  his  breast.  He  saw  afar  two 
horsemen  riding  the  sea-road  into  Rapallo,  with 
a  third  behind  them ;  he  saw  them  without  heart- 
beats, with  a  slight  quickening  only  of  the  pulse. 
He  looked  down  at  his  blessed  burden.  She  slept 
deeply,  her  lashes  brushing  the  round  of  her  cheek. 
Her  beautiful  lips  were  apart,  the  sleek,  adorable 


382  MRS.  LANCELOT 

curve  of  the  upper  showed  a  faint  smile.  "  She 
shall  have  her  sleep  out,  God  bless  her.  I  can 
give  her  an  hour." 

She.  took  less  than  that,  stirred  in  his  arms,  and 
showed  to  his  scrutiny  one  bright  eye,  and  the 
smile  of  one  rested  and  wholly  at  peace. 

"You  have  dreamed,  my  soul?" 

"  Yes,  of  you." 

"  I  have  been  watching  you.  I  saw  a  smile 
creep  over  you,  like  sun  over  the  hills." 

"  That  was  because  you  looked  at  me." 

"  Please  God  you  shall  always  smile  when  I 
look  at  you." 

"  How  can  I  help  it?  Your  looks  tell  me  that 
you  still  love  me." 

"  I  shall  love  you  forever." 

She  sighed.  "  Oh,  I  pray  for  that!  I  hardly 
dare  believe  it." 

"  Take  it  for  granted,  sweetheart." 

"  No,  no,  no.  I  will  never  take  anything  of 
yours  for  granted.  I  shall  be  grateful  for  every- 
thing you  do  for  me,  great  or  small." 

He  drew  her  upwards  till  she  was  within  range 
of  his  lips,  and  began  to  kiss  her.  Very  soon  he 
drew  her  kisses  again,  and  they  knew  the  heights 
and  depths  of  their  passion. 

Then,  holding  her  close,  he  said,  "  My  life, 
you  shall  leave  me  now.  I  have  a  little  work  to 


GERVASE'S  TEETH  383 

do  alone.  Will  you  go  into  the  house  and  wait 
till  I  come?" 

She  wondered.  "  Of  course  I  will,  dearest,  if 
you  wish  it.  I  may  n't  stay  with  you?  " 

"  I  had  rather  you  did  n't.  I  shall  be  the 
quicker  done  if  I  am  alone.  I  shall  come  to  you 
in  a  few  minutes  with  all  done.  Then  you  shall 
kiss  me  and  say  that  I  have  done  well." 

She  saw  that  he  was  serious;  perhaps  even  she 
guessed  his  meaning.  She  allowed  herself  a  mo- 
ment's play.  "  Perhaps  you  will  have  done  ill, 
though.  What  then?" 

"  You  will  kiss  me  all  the  same.  But  however 
it  goes  I  shall  report  you  everything." 

"  Can  I  stay  here?  Or  walk  about?  Must  I 
shut  myself  in?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not.  I  would  ask  you  to  stop 
with  me,  but  that  I  can  do  what  I  want  to  more 
freely  alone.  And  I  want  to  know  where  you  are 
in  case  I  should  have  to  find  you  at  a  moment's 


notice." 


She  puzzled.  "  You  are  mysterious,  my  poet. 
But  I  am  sure  you  are  not  upon  poetry  just  now. 
And  I  am  not  to  be  told?  " 

Then  he  caught  her  to  his  heart.  "Yes,  yes, 
my  love,  you  shall  be  told.  I  thought  that  I 
could  keep  it  from  you.  I  thought  that  you 
might  keep  your  dreams.  No,  I  '11  tell  you. 


384  MRS.  LANCELOT 

Lancelot  and  the  Duke  are  in  Rapallo.  They 
are  coming  to  see  me.  Do  you  wish  to  be  with 
me?" 

She  looked  very  serious,  and  thought.  She 
shivered  a  little  and  sat  plucking  at  the  grass. 
"  No,"  she  said  presently,  "  I  don't  want  to  see 
them.  Go  to  them,  dearest.  I  '11  wait  for  you 
in  the  house."  She  got  up  and  left  him,  without 
a  kiss.  He  watched  her  go,  then  went  down  to- 
wards the  sea. 

At  the  bend  of  the  rough  road  he  saw  them  com- 
ing. There  was  a  parapet  there  which  held  it 
up  over  the  abyss.  Below  that  a  slim  thread  of 
water  poured,  amid  a  riot  of  leaf  and  fern.  Upon 
it  in  the  shade  the  Duke  sat  to  rest,  while  Lance- 
lot, tall  and  severely  elegant,  stood  looking  up- 
wards. Gervase  came  swinging  down  the  road, 
buttoning  his  coat  across  his  chest.  He  was  bare- 
headed, his  hair  flashed  golden  in  the  sun.  He 
had  the  flushed  face  and  hot  blue  eyes  of  the  Sun- 
God.  Charles  saw  him,  and  said  to  the  Duke, 
"  Here 's  our  man."  The  Duke  stood  up. 
"  That's  the  fellow." 

Gervase  stopped  at  a  ten-foot  distance  and 
bowed.  "  Gentlemen,  I  have  come  to  meet  you," 
he  said,  and  waited. 

Charles  was  pale,  and  his  dark  eyes  burned  in 
his  head. 

u  I  have  come,  sir,  for  my  unhappy,  my  mis- 


GERVASE'S  TEETH  385 

guided  wife.  When  she  is  restored  to  me  you 
and  I  must  have  our  reckoning." 

'  We  shall  reckon  now  and  at  once,"  said  Ger- 
vase.  "  I  tell  you  fairly  —  I  have  told  you  al- 
ready—  you  will  never  get  her  while  I  am  left 
alive.  Misguided  you  may  call  her,  but  unhappy, 
no.  She  is  happy  now,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life." 

"  It  is  at  the  cost  of  her  honor  and  mine  if  she 
imagines  herself  so.  It  is  at  the  cost  of  every 
tie  — "  Charles  began.  Gervase  sprang  into  the 
breach  in  his  ranks. 

"  It  is  at  the  cost  of  every  fetter  you  have 
fastened  upon  her.  She  is  a  free  woman,  her  soul 
is  her  own.  She  is  no  slave  now.  Your  traffic 
is  over.  How  dare  you  talk  doubtfully  of  her 
honor,  knowing  so  little  of  it,  having  none  of  your 
own?" 

"  Softly,  young  man,"  said  the  Duke  here,  but 
Gervase  faced  him  in  turn. 

"  My  lord,"  he  said,  "  this  is  no  business  of 
yours.  You  are  here,  I  conceive,  as  the  witness  of 
your  friend  in  what  he  presently  proposes.  You 
shall  have  your  work  to  do  when  we  come  to  that. 
But  I  am  going  to  give  this  gentleman  something 
to  fight  about." 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  said  the  Duke,  "  and  I 
beg  your  pardon." 

Gervase  turned  to  Charles.     "  I  have  the  ordi- 


386  MRS.  LANCELOT 

nary  perceptions  of  a  man,  sharpened  by  my  love 
for  her  whose  confidence  you  have  abused.  I 
know  the  miserable  history  of  your  marriage. 
She  never  loved  you.  How  should  she,  seeing 
that  before  you  claimed  her  she  had  known  noth- 
ing of  men?  But  you  took  her  affections  for 
granted;  you  thought  that  she  would  do  what 
you  call  her  duty.  You  claimed  her  from  her 
parents,  and  expected  to  have  her  heart  thrown 
in.  You  fool,  and  you  might  have  had  it  if  you 
had  been  able  to  forget  yourself  for  half  an  hour 
a  day;  and  you  might  have  kept  it  if  you  had 
known  that  a  woman  was  not  a  thing  to  be  bought, 
like  a  horse  or  a  piece  of  furniture.  But  no! 
You  cling  to  the  law  —  the  law  which  was  de- 
vised by  horrible  old  men  who  used  women  as  cat- 
tle —  as  brood  mares,  who  could  be  put  to  draft 
work  when  not  with  young;  who  disposed  of  them 
as  property.  And  under  that  law  which  says, 
Covet  not  a  man's  house,  covet  not  his  wife,  nor 
his  ox,  you  shelter  yourself,  forsooth!  You  snug 
rascal,  what  of  her  own  soul?  What  of  her  free 
will,  of  her  clear  eyes,  of  her  judgment,  of  her 
character?  Are  these  of  no  account  in  the  bargain? 
If  they  are  not,  you  are  a  trafficker,  neither  more 
nor  less;  you  buy  cheap  in  the  market-place;  but 
if  they  are,  and  if  they  were  of  account  when  you 
took  her,  it  was  your  plain  business  to  approve 
yourself  to  her,  to  justify  the  confidence  of  her 


GERVASE'S  TEETH  387 

youth.  It  was  your  simple  duty  to  implant  love 
in  her  heart,  since  even  you,  I  suppose,  can  under- 
stand that  without  love  no  woman  can  become  so. 
Well  —  and  what  did  you  do?  How  did  you 
justify  your  assumption  of  her  in  her  innocence? 
What  did  you  do  to  bring  love  to  flower  in  her 
heart? 

4  You !  I  '11  tell  you  what  you  did.  You  as- 
sumed the  rights  of  a  husband  —  not  of  a  lover, 
which  you  have  never  been;  but  of  a  husband. 
You  said,  I  have  taken  a  wife  as  an  incident  of 
my  career.  I  will  work  abroad  and  she  at  home, 
that  I  may  make  a  name  for  myself.  Why,  you 
assume  everything!  You  assume  the  necessity  of 
your  career  —  and  I  give  it  you;  but  you  assume 
the  necessity  of  her  part  in  it  —  and  that  you 
shan't  have.  Pray,  is  a  career  the  prerogative  of 
the  male?  May  it  not  be  that  your  business 
should  be  to  serve  her,  rather?  Not  only  is  that 
possible,  but  I  tell  you  that  Jt  is  certain.  She  has 
a  plain  right  to  be  served  by  any  man  who  has 
the  grace  to  see  that  she  is  a  vase  of  piety,  a 
fountain  of  honor  and  truth,  a  living  symbol  of 
the  beauty  of  God  in  Heaven.  But  such  things 
as  these  you  are  incapable  of  seeing.  You  are 
a  woman-user. 

"  What  did  you  then  ?  You  worked  all  day 
long  at  your  sordid  affairs  of  money-getting,  sta- 
tion-making. You  left  her  alone  without  your  con- 


388  MRS.  LANCELOT 

fidence,  without  interests  or  the  means  of  getting 
them;  and  when  you  returned  to  her,  it  was  not 
to  serve  her,  but  to  take  your  ease.  To  relax 
your  efforts  of  the  day,  you  assumed  your  right 
to  be  dull.  Not  only  so,  but  that  you  might  be 
duller  it  was  her  business,  said  you,  to  be  cheer- 
ful. Pray,  what  scope  for  cheer  had  she,  boxed 
in  your  house  with  you  for  a  partner?  What  busi- 
ness had  you  to  be  dull  with  so  lovely  a  being  at 
your  side?  How  dared  you  assume  a  right  to 
be  served  by  such  as  she  is,  a  messenger  from 
the  sky,  an  angel  from  Heaven?  How  dared 
you  sink  in  your  dullness,  and  pretend  in  the  same 
breath  that  you  loved  ?  You  love !  Do  you 
know  what  love  is?  Do  you  know  that  it  is  a 
high  ecstasy  of  wonder  and  service?  You  say 
that  you  love ;  but  love  raises  a  man  on  wings  — 
and  you  sank.  You  sank  deeper  and  deeper  in 
dullness,  and  you  expected  her  to  share  your  dull- 
ness'. How  dared  you  expect  that  of  her  ?  How 
pretend  to  love  her  and  make  her  your  drudge? 
Pooh,  sir,  it  was  yourself  that  you  loved,  and  al- 
ways have.  There  is  respect  in  love,  and  a  pas- 
sion to  give,  and  give,  and  never  be  done  with 
giving.  Love  is  a  noble  rage  to  beggar  yourself 
for  the  beloved.  It  is  a  noble  fire  to  excel  that 
the  beloved  may  have  glory.  You  have  never 
loved  any  but  yourself.  You  took  her  for  your 
convenience,  and  used  her  for  your  needs. 


GERVASE'S  TEETH  389 

"  Fie  upon  you,  there  is  worse  to  come."  His 
eyes  blazed  in  his  head.  He  took  some  steps  for- 
ward and  raised  his  hand  to  drive  in  the  blows 
of  his  word.  '  You  used  her  vilely;  for  your  pur- 
poses you  made  her  your  lure.  You  traded  her 
beauty,  her  youth  and  grace,  her  purity,  her  di- 
vine attributes.  You  sent  her  abroad  that  she 
might  attract  this  man's  looks  " —  he  swept  the 
Duke  into  the  parley  — "  that  so  he  might  con- 
sider your  advancement  as  a  means  to  his  own. 
You  knew  his  character,  you  knew  his  ways;  you 
schooled  her  in  this  horrible  traffic;  you  became 
a  hirer;  you  followed  what,  examined  candidly,  is 
the  most  shameful  trade  known  to  this  world  — 
and  I  '11  say  no  more  about  it.  Employed  in  this 
ghastly  business  I  found  her,  and  knew  her  for 
what  she  was.  I  adored  her,  I  saw  God  and  all 
Heaven  in  her  eyes;  I  thought  of  her  night  and 
day,  and  prepared  to  serve  her.  And  I  have.  I 
have  opened  her  eyes  to  truth,  her  heart  to  love, 
her  soul  to  the  all-pervading  God.  She  is  free, 
she  is  happy,  she  is  hopeful  of  all  good  things. 
She  will  be  a  mother,  she  will  love  her  children, 
and  they  will  love  her.  The  world,  which  has 
passed  her  by,  will  be  the  richer  of  her;  for  I  will 
take  care  that  all  men  know  what  a  glory  and 
miracle  she  is.  It  was  Dante's  boast  that  he  would 
report  of  his  beloved  things  which  had  never  been 
written  of  women.  That  also  will  I  do.  I  will 


390  MRS.  LANCELOT 

school  the  world  in  the  knowledge  and  love  of 
grace  and  purity  and  truth  as  they  are  manifested 
in  her.  I  am  a  singer,  I  believe.  I  shall  never 
sing  of  any  but  her  - —  and  my  whole  life  shall 
be  a  song  of  praise  and  thanksgiving.  For  not 
only  with  my  lips  will  I  show  her  radiance,  but 
in  every  act  of  mine  done  in  her  honor. 

"  I  have  done,  sir.  Now  you  may  have  your 
pleasure  of  me."  He  folded  his  arms  over  his 
chest,  which  heaved  with  his  tide  of  rage.  He 
bent  his  head  as  a  man  who  expects,  looking  up- 
wards from  under  his  brows  at  his  enemy. 

But  Charles  had  nothing  to  say  at  present.  He 
had  listened  with  amazement  to  the  torrent  of 
words.  He  had  expected  nothing  of  the  kind 
from  the  man  whom  he  looked  upon  as  the  traitor; 
but  here  was  himself  put  on  his  defense.  He 
was  never  a  ready  speaker. 

"  I  shall  not  attempt  to  answer  your  attack,"  he 
said  presently.  "  You  deal  in  abusive  terms.  I 
cannot  follow  you.  I  demand  of  you  the  satisfac- 
tion which  one  man  owes  to  another.  If  you  will 
give  me  the  name  of  your  friend,  his  Grace  here 
will  undertake  what  may  be  necessary.  I  have 
listened  to  you  long,  and  to  little  purpose,  that 
I  see." 

"  I  have  no  friend  in  the  place,  as  you  may 
easily  understand,"  Gervase  replied;  "  nor  do  I  see 
the  harm  of  any  little  irregularity  in  this  game  of 


GERVASE'S  TEETH  391 

homicide.  You  can  shoot  me  at  once,  if  you 
please.  I  have  no  weapon,  it  is  true ;  but  if  I  had 
one  I  should  n't  use  it,  so  I  don't  think  that  need 
hinder  you.  If  you  please  to  lend  me  one  of 
yours,  I  will  hold  it  —  to  give  you  a  countenance. 
But  let  it  be  understood  beforehand  that  you  offer 
no  molestation  to  your  wife." 

"  I  give  you  no  undertaking  whatever,"  said 
Charles. 

"  In  that  case,"  Gervase  said,  "  I  decline  to  meet 
you  until  I  have  bestowed  her  in  safety." 

The  Duke  interposed.  "  Now,  Mr.  Poore, 
perhaps  you  '11  listen  to  me.  You  stopped  me 
before  —  and  properly;  but  since  then  you've 
brought  me  into  the  affair,  and  you  can't  stop  me 
again.  Allow  me  to  point  out  to  you  in  the  first 
place  that  you  have  abused  my  hospitality." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lord,"  said  Gervase. 
"  I  was  not  a  guest  of  yours." 

"  That 's  a  quibble,  my  man.  You  would  never 
have  been  here  if  I  had  not  asked  you." 

"  Nor  would  Mrs.  Lancelot,  my  lord,"  said 
Gervase. 

,  "  Next,"  said  the  Duke,  "  while  you  profess  to 
serve  this  lady  whom  you  have  tempted  from  her 
home,  you  have  done  her  a  very  bad  turn  among 
her  friends.  You  don't  suppose  that  these  things 
are  to  be  done  without  scandal  —  eh?  " 

Gervase,    metaphorically,    flew    at   his   throat. 


392  MRS.  LANCELOT 

"Scandal,  my  lord?  Who  are  you  to  consider 
scandal  when  you  have  set  it  buzzing  about  her 
like  flies  for  the  last  two  years?  Do  you  know 
what  has  been  said  of  her  by  the  rascals  of  the 
gutter?  Maybe  you  do  not;  but  I  who  have 
stood  at  the  doors  of  your  great  houses  for  the 
mere  glimpse  of  her  passing,  I  know  too  well. 
Do  you  know  what  your  own  associates  say? 
You  must  needs  know  that.  Condemn  me  if 
you  will,  but  not  where  you  are  in  a  worse  con- 
demnation than  I.  For  you  took  her  into  your 
house,  with  that  wretched  man  over  there  trail- 
ing behind  her,  consenting  for  the  sake  of  his 
worldly  profit,  and  made  the  thing  hideous.  But 
I  take  her  out  of  these  seraglios  and  get  her  into 
the -clean  air.  For  the  sake  of  eternal  welfare 
and  honor,  it  may  be  necessary  to  endure  a  little 
foul  usage  from  a  world  of  satyrs  and  swine,  since 
unhappily  among  such  our  lot  is  cast;  but  it  will 
be  over  before  she  sees  England  again;  and  mean- 
time she  can  be  happy  in  the  possession  of  her 
free  soul  —  here,  in  this  noble  country  where 
all  are  free  as  she  shall  be." 

The  Duke  took  snuff,  and  considered  his  reply. 
'  You  are  a  forcible  reasoner,  Mr.  Poore,"  he 
said  presently,  but  not  before  he  had  taken  a  turn 
or  two  up  and  down  the  road.  "  You  can  put 
your  case.  Damn  it,  man,  I  'm  not  above  con- 
fessing that  a  good  deal  of  what  you  have  said 


GERVASE'S  TEETH  393 

hits  me  hard.  I  'm  old  enough  to  say  so,  but 
I  '11  add  this  for  myself,  that  I  intended  that  dear 
friend  no  harm  at  all,  and  that  I  don't  believe 
I  have  done  her  any.  Mind  you,  also,  the  stuff 
I  take  her  to  be  of  is  yours  and  mine  too.  I  think 
she  is  of  our  human  clay,  not  so  tarnishable  as 
the  rare  crystal  of  your  imagination.  She 's  a 
beloved  woman,  but  she  's  a  woman  to  me,  and 
dear  because  she  's  a  woman  rather  than  an  angel. 
But  then  you  're  a  poet  and  I  'm  a  man  of  the 
world.  Now,  mere  scandal  I  can  afford  to  over- 
look, as  you  say  that  you  can,  for  reason  good. 
I  don't  hear  very  much  of  it  —  I  'm  too  much 
occupied  with  other  matters  —  and  don't  pay  any 
regard  to  that  which  I  do  overhear.  Perhaps, 
if  I  had  kept  the  company  you  report  yourself 
as  keeping,  I  should  have  disliked  the  form  in 
which  it  was  put  —  but  I  don't  know.  I  'm  not 
squeamish,  and  I  Ve  a  notion  that  hard  words  hurt 
nobody,  least  of  all  one  who  was,  as  she,  above 
reproach.  God  bless  her,  she  did  n't  hear  any  of 
it  —  so  far  as  I  know.  That 's  all  I  wish  to  say." 
He  considered  further,  and  then  came  nearer. 
"  Now,  Mr.  Poore,  I  hope  you  don't  suspect  me 
of  evil  designs.  I  '11  tell  you  this  much,  that  long 
before  you  came  upon  her  scene  she  had  made  me 
incapable  of  that.  When  she  is  willing  to  see 
me  I  shall  be  more  than  ready.  You  may  tell 
her  that  with  my  love,  the  love  of  a  man  who 
•i 


394  MRS.  LANCELOT 

has  derived  more  comfort  than  he  deserves  from 
her  companionship.  There  's  my  last  word,  but 
I  'm  not  the  most  concerned.  I  don't  advise  my 
friend  here  to  fight  you,  and  I  don't  think  he  will. 
But  you  shall  hear."  The  Duke  nodded  his  head, 
touched  the  brim  of  his  hat.  "  Good-day  to  you, 
Mr.  Poore,"  he  said,  and  turned  to  descend  the 
hill;  but  Gervase  went  after  him. 

"  My  lord,  I  beg  one  moment  of  you."  The 
Duke  stopped  to  listen. 

"  You  have  spoken,"  said  the  young  man, 
"  kindly  and  handsomely.  I  am  much  obliged  to 
you.  Be  sure  that  your  message  shall  be  faith- 
fully delivered." 

The  Duke  nodded.  "  I  am  sure,"  he  said. 
Gervase  hovered  —  he  was  very  red  and  hot. 

"  By  God  in  Heaven,  Duke,  you  may  trust  her 
with  me."  The  moment  was  emotional,  and  the 
Duke  disliked  nothing  so  much.  He  lifted  his 
head  sharply,  his  cold  eyes  flamed. 

"  Why,  you  young  donkey,  do  you  suppose 
you  'd  have  been  alive  at  this  moment  if  I  had  not 
believed  in  you?  By  Gad,  sir,  I  'd  have  shot  you 
like  a  rat  in  a  pigsty.  Good-day  to  you."  With 
that  he  marched  down  the  hill,  leaving  Charles  in 
the  lurch.  But  he  did  not  intend  Charles  to  fight, 
and  assumed  that  Charles,  therefore,  would  not 
fight. 


GERVASE'S  TEETH  395 

And  rightly.  There  was  no  fight  in  Charles. 
Throughout  the  passage  between  the  two  lovers  of 
his  wife  he  had  stood  with  head  sunk  into  his 
breast.  Now  that  one  of  them  had  left  him  he 
awaited  the  other,  and  as  he  returned  lifted  up  his 
colorless  face  and  turned  him  his  faded  eyes. 
He  could  hardly  speak  above  a  whisper,  and  was 
forced,  against  his  House-of-Commons,  Treasury 
manner,  to  emphasize  every  sentence  with  a  jerk  of 
the  hand.  It  added  to  the  sense  of  effort,  and  was 
painful  to  behold. 

He  said  —  while  the  young  man  heard  him  with 
distress  — "  Mr.  Poore,  you  have  said  harsh  things 
to  me,  and  I  have  not  answered  them.  I  cannot 
answer  them,  for  I  believe  that  most  of  them  are 
very  true." 

Gervase,  touched  to  generosity  in  a  moment, 
would  have  stopped  him,  and  did  indeed  extend  his 
hands  in  deprecation  of  his  recent  attack.  But 
Charles  only  hurried  on. 

"  You  cannot  have  known  how  true  your  words 
were,  for  if  you  had  they  would  have  been  still 
more  terrible  —  more  unanswerable  still.  Mr. 
Poore,  I  am  moved  to  confess  to  you  that  the 
death  of  her  child  lies  at  my  door." 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  "  cried  Gervase. 

"  But  it  is  so.  She  overtaxed  her  strength  when 
her  health  could  not  afford  it  —  when  all  that  she 


396  MRS.  LANCELOT 

had  was  called  for.  She  did  that  to  serve  me  — 
as  she  thought,  and  as  I  thought.  God  help  me  to 
forgiveness  —  I  am  a  sinful  man." 

He  changed  his  tone,  having  mastered  his  emo- 
tion. Then  he  continued  more  quietly.  '  You 
have  convinced  me  that  I  have  used  her  ill — 
Yes,  yes !  "  And  here  his  voice  broke  altogether, 
and  he  had  to  turn  away  his  head.  Gervase  made 
a  movement  of  the  hands  to  stay  him,  but  Charles 
recovered.  "  Yes,  yes,  loving  her  as  I  did,  and 
do,  I  loved  myself  more,  and  have  served  my- 
self worst  of  all.  So  far  you  have  convinced 
me  —  but  not  that  I  do  not  love  her.  Ah,  Mr. 
Poore,  I  can  convince  you  that  I  love  her  de- 
votedly." Inspired  by  his  feeling,  he  came  to 
the  poet  with  his  arms  extended  as  if  he  would 
take  his  pair  of  hands.  "  Desiring  now  her  wel- 
fare above  all  things,  seeking  only  to  satisfy  the 
call  of  her  heart,  of  her  nature,  and  of  her  con- 
science, I  resign  my  claims  to  her  —  I  resign  her 
care  to  you.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned  —  with 
fity  perpetual  prayers  for  her  happiness  —  she  is 
free.  She  shall  be  free  altogether,  by  legal 
means,  so  soon  as  may  be  —  she  and  her  fortune." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Gervase.  "  She  will  never 
touch  it.  I  can  say  no  more  now.  You  have 
put  me  at  your  feet." 

"  Say  nothing  to  her  of  me,"  said  Charles. 
"  Let  her  forget  me  as  soon  as  she  may.  I  would 


GERVASE'S  TEETH  397 

ask  her  forgiveness  but  that  I  know  I  have  it, 
and  desire  above  all  things  now  that  the  past 
may  be  as  dead  to  her.  For  her  sake,  I  hope 
we  may  never  meet  again." 

"  She  is  here  —  she  is  close  at  hand,"  Gervase 
told  him,  now  in  a  state  in  which  he  too  would 
have  renounced  everything  that  he  had  gained. 
"  She  will  see  you,  if  you  — " 

"  God  forbid,"  said  Charles.  "  I  charge  you 
with  her  welfare.  I  will  do  nothing  to  impair 
it.  So  soon  as  I  am  in  England  I  will  put  mat- 
ters in  train.  She  shall  be  free  to  be  your  wife 
—  entirely  free.  You  shall  hear  from  me." 

Gervase  stood  with  folded  arms,  unable  to  look 
up.  Charles  nervously  took  off  his  gloves  and 
slipped  a  ring  from  his  finger. 

"  When  I  was  married,"  he  said,  "  I  gave  my- 
self this  ring  upon  my  wedding  day.  It  was 
to  remind  myself  of  my  duty  —  which,  you  tell 
me  (and  I  acknowledge),  I  too  soon  forgot.  Ac- 
cept it  from  me.  I  don't  ask  you  to  wear  it,  but 
to  keep  it.  You  will  not  refuse." 

"  I  will  not  refuse,"  said  Gervase.  "  I  take  it 
as  a  sign  that  you  trust  me." 

The  ring  was  handed  over.  Charles  touched 
his  hat,  turned  and  walked  down  the  hill.  Ger- 
vase stood  motionless,  staring  at  the  sea.  There, 
as  it  grew  dusk,  Georgiana  found  him.  She  came 
behind  him  softly  and  touched  his  arm.  He 


398  MRS.  LANCELOT 

turned,  looked  at  her  wildly.  She  implored,  with 
eyes  and  moving  lips.  He  gave  a  cry,  and  clasped 
her  to  his  heart.  "  By  God,  by  God,  my  Saint, 
I  shall  love  you  on  my  knees !  " 


THE    END 


riNE  BOOK* 
703    1-2   W.    BTH    ST. 
LOS   AN3EL.ES 


